


Good PatRiot

by TransientGuest



Category: Original Work
Genre: Animal Death, Burning, Detectives, Fire, Graffiti, Killing, M/M, Mystery, Police, Pyromania, Racist Language, Serial Killer, spray paint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-20 07:39:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 28,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4779041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TransientGuest/pseuds/TransientGuest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Portersville is a small town with a big problem.  A serial killer with a penchant for crappy rhymes is at large and with not even one suspect the only link between the cases thus far: spray paint. Graffiti artists beware, lead investigator Jason Grant is coming for your ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Victim One

**Author's Note:**

> I know there are warnings listed at the top, but there's some really disgustingly twisted events that happen in this story in both the past and present. I guess that's what happens when you write about a serial killer.

"Wh-What do you want dude?" the man yelled frantically, crawling desperately to get away.

The "dude" in question had come out of absolutely fucking nowhere and started beating the living shit out of him. He bet he had some fractured ribs. And his nose. Yeah. _Definitely_ broken. Blood was flowing freely from it and every once and a while he would get a taste of the revolting metallic liquid as it seeped its way into his mouth.

The guy laughed. He _laughed_. And it wasn't one of those sardonic chuckles that people were so fond of using when they found absolutely no humor in their situation. It was an honest to goodness laugh. Sounded like the guy was enjoying himself. Like there was nothing he enjoyed more than beating somebody to a bloody pulp. And as he looked into those eyes that sparkled with absolute mirth he knew he was a fucking dead man.

The guy lunged.

"Shit," he cried scrambling across the mulch. Pieces of the chipped wood stuck in his hands as he fumbled to get distance between himself and his attacker. He remembered how he would make a fuss whenever he got a splinter playing here as a kid. But the little slivers of wood seemed trivial when put against his other injuries.

It hurt so fucking much.

Breathing had never been so painful.

He had thought the evening perfect to spend time in the park. He loved to walk along the path that wove around the perimeter of the recreational area watching as friends and families took advantage of the play area and grills.

When they left as the sun started setting he stayed, content to rest in the semi-wet grass and watch the stars. It was a beautiful night for stargazing new moon and clear as he had ever seen. And there was hardly any light pollution. Every once in a while he saw a satellite whizzing by. It was during the stargazing that his world was eclipsed by the figure of the man who was making him regret his decision to watch the stars.

Really regret it.

The man kicked him in the side. Hard.

He dimly wondered if this is what it felt like to be hit by a train. Probably not. Those people were lucky enough to die when they were struck. A quick pain and then oblivion. This guy had been playing with him slowly for the last hour.

He was tired of it. So very tired. He took a shallow breath that ended with a hiss as his ribs protested the effort and decided he would beg. Beg the guy to leave him alone.

"I'll give you all of my money. Please! _Please!_ _Anything_ to make it stop," his voice broke at the end and was overtaken by hiccupping sobs.

The desperate attempt sparked nothing but annoyance on the hooded countenance of his attacker.

"Zabien, Zabien,' the man drawled almost lazily, "I don't want your money," he said this as if it were common knowledge he had to explain carefully to an unusually slow-witted individual. An individual that should have known exactly why he was there.

The guy reached into his leather coat and Zabien feared the worst. He was obviously going for some kind of weapon. Zabien's heart hammered in his chest. This was it. The guy was really going to kill him. Finding what he was looking for the man pulled out his weapon.

Zabien almost cried in relief. It was a water bottle. Nothing bad ever came from a water bottle. He briefly wondered if he was on some kind of fucked up new reality show that was a cross between _Scare Tactics_ and _Dog Eat Dog._

He watched as the man unscrewed the lid of the bottle and half expected the guy to take a drink. But no. The bottle was lobbed right at the kid.

Direct hit.

Completely Soaked.

Zabien sputtered. The bottle had smacked him right in the head. He spit some of the foul tasting liquid out of his mouth.

Water didn't taste like that.

He had never had anything that tasted like that. He sniffed, taking as big a breath as he could muster with his damaged ribs. And identified the liquid.

Gasoline.

 _Shit_.

Zabien looked up with fear in his eyes. There was no way this was a reality show. It was too fucked up even for them. His breath was coming in sharp gasps. He was panicking somewhere between hyperventilating, crying and wanting to faint. His ribs hurt, his head was pounding and all he smelled was the putrid aroma of gasoline.

 _Why had he come here alone?_ His girlfriend had offered halfheartedly to come to the park with him. But being the nice boyfriend he was, he said she could stay back, like he knew she wanted to, and watch the latest episode of _American Idol_. He told her he'd be fine. She should enjoy her show. Now he was frantically trying to find _anyone_ around him at this ridiculous hour to help him. Why had he told Abby he'd be fine.

He was so _not_ fine it wasn't even funny.

Wait…

The guy knew his name.

He wished, not for the first time, that he could just make out the guy's face, but the hood on his sweatshirt was over his head, successfully blocking his features in the abundant shadows of a night with no moon. Every once in a while he would catch a glimpse of those eyes, but nothing more. "Do I know you?" he asked slowly, really dreading the answer he might get. The voice hadn't sounded familiar, but he had never been good at recognizing voices.

There was that disturbingly gleeful laugh again, "No, but I know you."

Why would this psycho know him? Zabien whimpered. He didn't want to be one of those stories parents told their children to scare them. Didn't want to be the reason people wouldn't let their kids out after dark saying, "Remember that Fitzgerald boy?"

There was something in the guy's left hand. A flickering. _Glowing_.

He was still advancing on Zabien. And it felt like for every move Zabien made away from the guy he made two strides toward Zabien. In short he was gaining in him.

As he got closer Zabien realized the glowing light was one of those automatic lighters.

Fire.

Fuck was he in trouble.

Fire + gasoline= a very bad end to Zabien's day.

There was something in the guy's other hand. A can.

Zabien had been so transfixed on the flame that he missed the man pull it out of his jacket. The guy was shaking it. Zabien heard the clanking of the small metal ball as it bounced around inside the can.

A spray paint can.

The guy held the torch at arm's length and positioned the aerosol can directly behind it. As he realized what was about to happen, Zabien's bladder failed and he made a frantic attempt to distance himself from the guy.

But the man's index finger was quicker. All he did was push down on the little white nozzle of the can. A jet of fire burst from the homemade flamethrower.

Zabien screamed as the fire engulfed him. The attacker smiled listening to the screams of his first victim as the flames licked his flesh. Music to his ears.

The finest aria he had ever heard. Screams accompanied by the crackling of flames. _Perfect_. He moaned in satisfaction and pleasure. But all too soon the cries subsided leaving nothing but a smoldering corpse behind. But, God did he love that smell.

He remembered fondly the first time he smelled burning flesh. _His mom had annoyed him, letting that miserable excuse for a feline companion pee on his favorite pair of boots. The cat was always ruining his stuff. Well, he made sure that animal would never be able to do anything like that to his belongings ever again. He found it in the house and took it into the bathroom. There he wrestled it into the tub holding it there with one hand while he reached for the pocket knife that his dad had bought him for his tenth birthday. His dad always insisted he carried it, never knew it would actually come in handy._

_The cat knew something was up and struggled, clawing at the surface of the tub, but he was stronger. He held it there, hand tightly around its neck, and skinned it alive. He let out a joyful laugh. He should have done this ages ago. It was fun. About halfway through the bloody process he began applying more pressure to the feline's neck until eventually he crushed its windpipe. He got an immense sense of satisfaction out of feeling the vertebrae in the neck snap. Feeling the life leave the animal as it ceased its struggles. It was amazing to feel the body give up in his arms. He enjoyed the sticky exposed muscles of the dead animal as his hands clenched and unclenched the meaty carcass._

_Once it was fully skinned he gathered it lovingly in his arms, and picked up all of the stripped flesh. He carried it outside in his arms petting the dead beast at random intervals relish at the feel of the exposed muscles under his fingertips. He gently dug his nails into the muscle and gave a squeeze smiling at the squishing sound the action made. If the animal behaved like this when it was alive he wouldn't have had to kill it. Heck he might have liked it._

_He made his way over to the fire pit in his back yard and went to get matches. Then he burned it. It was then that he learned a little something about himself. He liked the smell of the animal burning. Like_ really _liked it. He felt a tingling in his loins and couldn't stop the moan that escaped. He had never had a reaction like this before. The smell was intoxicating and he allowed himself to indulge on a newly forming fantasy. Bodies, smoldering all around him, surrounded by that heavenly aroma. It made his mouth water and his pants felt incredibly tight._

And now he had taken the first step in making his fantasies come true. He vaguely that something else of his really needed to come, but brushed that aside to attend to other more pressing matters.

Right now there was only a crispy corpse on the ground. He needed to make it a work of art. It was the least he could do for the kid. After all, he had been such a perfect little model. He took the can of paint and quickly sprayed a time; 3:09 on the charred mess of bones and melted flesh then threw the paint can down next to the burnt remains and checked his watch. 3:08am, right on schedule. Better make that phone call.

The bored female voice on the line recited the usual lines, "911, please state your name, location and a brief description of the emergency."

The man smiled knowing this phone call would _definitely_ make her night more interesting. He decided he'd disguise his voice adopting a strange accent and talking deeper than was typical of him. It worked for Batman so he reckoned it was good enough for him. "It's 3:09am. Tell your boys to get to the park. I've left them a little present alone in the dark."

He had to admit, the rhyme was a nice touch. He was a regular Dr. Seuss. He quickly hung up the phone and adjusted his pants. Still got an erection from the smell. He strategically placed the phone near the body so the cops would find it. There was no way it could be traced back to him. No prints were on the device. He was wearing leather gloves, black, he was fond of them but if it came right down to it he'd burn them and get rid of the evidence. He'd probably use them for the next couple of murders and then burn them. Yes he was definitely going to kill again. He liked it and he wanted the people he killed to think that _he_ was the one killing them. The man who had made him decide to start killing. He would make him pay. Ruin this man.

He smiled happily to himself. It was time to get home and take care of his little _problem._ He just wished it didn't happen every single time he killed something.

He strolled away whistling his own rendition of _Habanera_.

He looked up at the stars as he walked and quickly located Lyra and Scorpius, his two favorite constellations, in the night sky. A brightly shining meteor went flying by and he smiled. That's right the Perseids were coming up, he might have to watch them. He sighed content. What a great start to the morning. And he knew the rest of his day was going to be just as great.


	2. Victim Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team of do-gooders assigned to bring this crazed criminal to justice are introduced. God help them all...

"Listen up _ladies_ ," lead investigator (or big kahuna, as he liked to be called) of the Fitzgerald case, Jason Grant began as he sauntered into the broom closet of a briefing room he had managed to reserve for this _extremely important_ meeting.

He counted heads. Actually there wasn't even much counting involved. Besides him, there were three people on the case, and only two of them were in the room with him. Montoya and Porter.

Where was Platt?

"Where's Platt?" he asked deciding to voice his concern.

Montoya, of course, was the one to respond, "Gimpy went to get a drink, so you know she'll _definitely_ be late."

Jason rolled his eyes. Montoya and Platt acted like vinegar and oil and he was sure, if shaken up a little, they'd make a wonderful salad dressing. The only time they seemed to get along was when making lewd comments to each other about anything that popped into their perverted heads. He secretly thought that perhaps if Gabrielle Montoya and Isabelle Platt fucked some of their oh-too-obvious sexual tension and horribly fake disdain would magically evaporate. But he'd never suggest it. He didn't want to find out if the phrase "fucking each other's brains out" had any truth to it. He needed them to stay just as _smart_ as they were. "Montoya, you don't watch yourself and 'Gimpy' will kick your ass with that leg of hers." Montoya just snorted in response.

Platt had a prosthetic leg. The right one, right below the knee, and while she wasn't overly sensitive about the metal appendage, if she heard Montoya calling her gimpy she'd probably beat the obnoxious woman's ass, or take off the leg and club her in the head with it.

Wouldn't be the first time it happened.

Jason decided to get on with his little spiel. Platt was a big girl. She could figure out what she missed. And if she had any questions he's happily answer them at the end of the meeting, after ridiculing her a bit, of course.

Well time to break the _good_ news to his team. "We've got us another one," he slammed a large stack of papers down on the table.

"You're shitting me," Montoya whined sitting up straighter in her chair.

"Does it look like I'm 'shitting' you Montoya?" he gave her a piercing stare while pointing to his face. Then he pushed the mountainous paper pile in her direction. "Here's some paper for that potty mouth of yours."

She snatched the papers up giving him a 'I can't believe you actually said that' look and shuffled a few of the papers.

Jason watched her, wanting to know if she was actually reading them. From the way her stern brown eyes seemed to be scanning the pages he guesses she actually was reading them. Wonders never ceased.

Maybe it was going to snow. Unlikely since it was only August. Still, stranger things have happened. Like Montoya actually _reading_.

An unremarkable bookish girl with fine blonde hair and sweet hazel eyes looked at him questioningly from her seat at the table. "And just what, pray tell, are we supposed to do while she reads that?"

Ahh Sophie Porter, a descendant of Portersville's founder. Jay was quite fond of her. Hell, he loved all of his girls. But there would always be a special place in his bed… ahem… _heart_ (she claimed the bed was a onetime thing, but a guy could dream, right) for the sarcastically polite pixie. He always wondered how she managed to look so small and unintimidating when she had a good five inches on Montoya. Guessed it had something to do with her slight frame. Montoya was all muscle and attitude. She may have been 4'11" but she was a tank.

Jay smirked before giving an answer he knew would piss Montoya off, "Well," claimed a rickety chair at the table and got comfortable, "I thought I'd give you a run-through on what exactly's happened."

"Then why the hell are you making me do _this_ " Montoya yelled, just like he knew she would, throwing the stupid papers down on the table. She crossed her arms and pouted looking very much like a petulant child, if said child were a bodybuilder.

Right as Jason was about to open his mouth with a cheeky answer of punishmen,t Platt decided to make her entrance. "C'mon Gab, you _know_ you like it," and straight to the sexual banter it was. She sat down and set her drink down on the table giving Montoya a challenging look as if daring her to continue her train of thought.

Not one to ignore such an obvious challenge, Montoya took the bait. Hook, line and sinker. "Only when we use the fluffy handcuffs."

Platt's eyes sparkled with amusement. She loved when she could get others to play along. Especially Montoya. "Mmm, and we can't forget the whipped cream," she agreed licking her lips in a very suggestive manner.

Jason knew if he didn't intervene soon the _friendly_ chat would turn ugly. One of them would piss the other off. And Montoya was a _bitch_ when she got angry. Hoping to put an end to their pillow talk Jason quipped, "Is this an open invite? Because I have to tell you, I'm lactose intolerant."

Instead of his desired outcome of all eyes on him, Sophie, sweet innocent _Sophie_ , made a comment, "There's cream made from non-dairy. I'm sure they'd be accommodating."

Platt and Montoya laughed. Platt, covering her mouth with her hand, trying to be all subtle, and Montoya banging her fists on the table with a hearty guffaw. Jason just shook his head and waited for his incredibly work-centric team to shut up.

When the laughing finally subsided Jason cleared his throat, "Okay, so here's the deal. Without any of the nitty-gritty details: our killer struck again. On a Mr. Ezekiel Benet."

There was a barely audible gasp from Sophie and two "shits" from his other girls.

"Yeah, tell me about it," Jason agreed, scrubbing a tired hand through his hair.

"Why weren't we called to the scene?" Platt asked causing Jason to focus on her. She really was pretty in an awkward giraffe kind of way. She had dark straight hair and equally dark eyes. She was tall too, hence the giraffe reference, a solid foot taller than Montoya. She had confided in him once that if not for the accident that had taken her leg, she might have considered being a model. It was the only time he ever heard her say anything about the injury changing her life.

"Outside our jurisdiction," Jay answered.

Montoya jumped out of her chair, " _Bullshi-_

"The only reason," Jason continued, yelling over the obnoxious one, "we have the _lovely_ file now is because chief forced the idiots to hand It over after noticing _way_ too many similarities to the case from two weeks ago."

"But why weren't we _called in_? There should have been more than one responding police force," Platt just wouldn't let the matter drop.

"There was. They took our name off their call list. Apparently they don't like working with us anymore," can't imagine why.

" _Bastardos_ ," Montoya seethed slumping back in her seat. Getting some control of her anger Montoya asked, "The case two weeks ago. You mean the Zabien Fitzgerald case?"

"The very one," Jason confirmed.

"What was so similar?" said Sophie quietly, deciding to speak up for the first time.

"Fuckin' spray paint," he spat. Just another reason to hate those damn graffiti artists. They ran around all over the city vandalizing and the other officers turned a blind eye. Not Jason Grant. No, he always got them because, as far as he was concerned, they were all bad. And these murders just proved he was right. It was obviously one of those would be artists turned killer.

He could feel himself getting angry. In order to reign in his anger he took a long deep breath. There was plenty of time later to bitch about graffiti artists.

"Is that all, because if it is…" Sophie let her sentence trail off.

Jason didn't need her to say it. He knew spray paint alone wasn't much of a connection, but there was more. "No," he said after a pregnant pause, "not even the half of it." He smiled grimly and quickly rattled off the other disturbingly similar details, "He left the paint can there just like last time. Painted the time on the body just like last time. No finger prints at all, but it was determined that the same pair of leather gloves were used.

"As for the actual murder; you'll be happy to know the victim wasn't burned. This time the bastard tried to make it look like the kid was huffing. Sprayed the whole fuckin' bottle of spray paint up his nose. Had all other orifices blocked. Kid ended up suffocating.

"And guess what else kiddies?" Jason asked excitedly.

He got a dull chorus of whats from them.

"Guy called it in himself again."

"Do we have a copy of the call?" Sophie asked calmly.

Jason watched as they all sat up a little straighter in their seats ready to hang on his every word. He loved the power he had. Definitely worthy of the title Big Kahuna. "Yeah. I got it. Let's listen to the thing then call this little meeting to a close."

"Ooh, wait," Platt said excitedly, "I'll go make some popcorn."

Jason rolled his eyes. That girl was _always_ eating. He briefly wondered where all that food went. She was a stick. Probably went to a hollow le- oh never mind…

Porter sat reading the file that Montoya had discarded and Montoya was playing with her frizzy hair, pulling at a curl until it was straight then letting it go and watching it spring back up to join the rest of the tight curls. Montoya only looked (and cursed) like an adult.

Jason started his laptop up and waited for it to warm up. Once it was ready to go he located the desired MP3 file and prepared for when Platt got back with her popcorn.

She came in and sat down, shoving a huge handful of popcorn into her mouth.

Jason pushed play.

"Two weeks," the caller began, slippery as a snake in that accent Jason was reasonably sure was fake. "Two weeks and you don't even have a possible suspect. I'm disappointed," he didn't sound disappointed. Sounded positively jovial. Like this was the most fun he had in… oh, about two weeks. "I've already given you _so_ many clues, but I _suppose_ a few more won't hurt…

"It's 1.01am.

"You'll find body number two  
not far from the first.  
Find the link between Fitzgerald and Benet.  
Do your worst."

The line clicked off and the MP3 ended.

"Wow," whispered Sophie.

"Yeah, I agree," Montoya said in a hushed tone, "that was some of the shittiest rhyming I've ever heard."

Platt smacked her on the back of the head.

" _Ouch_! What the hell? You _liked_ that shit?"

"No! Just… just shut up," Platt huffed. When she got tired the sexy witticisms went right down the toilet.

"Nice comeback Izzie," Jason complimented. The girl just pouted. Then addressing the whole group, "Is there anything you noticed _besides_ his first grade rhyming skills?"

He swore he could practically hear their thinking caps trying to work. Montoya's looked like it was malfunctioning. Her face was red and, he swears, smoke was coming out of her ears.

Sophie was the first to speak up. "He admitted to killing Fitzgerald."

"Exactly," Jason confirmed with a grim smile on his face. We have a potential serial killer who likes to play games." He scrubbed a hand through his hair. _And no promising suspects._

Could definitely feel a headache coming on.

_Fuckin' spray paint._


	3. Victim Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The killer strikes again. For some reason, victim number three just doesn't seem to appreciate his wicked sense of humor.

_Ahh… this is the life._ He thought as he continued on his trek through the dark, nothing but a can of spray paint in his hand. Or course he had other items in his leather coat and a few more in the hoodie he wore under it but well, those didn't count.

He took a deep breath in, enjoying the crispness on the night air. It almost smelled like rain and he could feel more moisture in the air than normal. Water clung to his skin, making little beads in his hair. He looked like some glittery fairy. Or a _Twilight_ vampire.

And yet this girl ran from him. He always thought girls were into vampires.

Maybe it was something he did. Maybe if he hadn't broken her ankle. Or… killed her boyfriend. He giggled. She wouldn't be getting too far on that ankle. Nobody could run for long with a break like _that_.

It had been so easy to break. Made the most _delicious_ snapping sound he had ever heard. Reminded him of the first time he ever killed.

_The robin's egg had been so beautiful. Tiny and that perfect blue color. It was like a gem, but a thousand times as fragile. He had cradled it lovingly in his hands wanting to show his mother the treasure he had found while exploring the woods behind their house._

_He knew she would be proud of him._

_But, she_ wasn't _. She had yelled at him, telling him he probably killed the unborn bird. Even if he put it back in the nest it was doomed. It's parents wouldn't come back to the nest now that his scent was on it._

_He had been so upset by her disappointment that he went onto their cement-slab porch and cried, clutching the egg to his heart as if to protect it from all the unfairness of the world._

_And then slowly as he sat there and stewed those sweet innocent tears turned bitter and angry thoughts began to cloud his mind._

_At the peak of his rage he drew back the hand holding the precious egg and whipped it at the cement with all the strength he could muster in his scrawny eight year old frame. It hit the ground with a sickening crack._

_Initially he panicked, upon seeing the unmoving form of the chick on the ground, fragments of the shell around it. His heart fluttered once in guilt before he realized how truly awesome a sight the dead animal was. To him it represented power._

His _power._

_He picked the dead animal up in his hand and played with its wings._

_He had the power to take_ lives _. And he decided he enjoyed using this power._

Over the years, that sick enjoyment hadn't waned. If anything it intensified. Humans were larger, harder and more illegal to kill than that pathetic unborn bird.

And humans fought back. That was his favorite part about them. But all too soon they grew frightened, deciding to run rather than put up a fight. Then it was time to kill them and end the game of cat and mouse.

That's where he was right now. The girl was afraid of him and when he finally caught up with her she'd be even more afraid. She would take that fear to her grave. Along with his identity.

His mouth pulled up on one side into a crooked grin. It looked more like a snarl. He could hear her blubbering. Crying. Begging for her pathetic life.

She wasn't part of his original plan. But unfortunately the girl was a necessary add-on. She had seen him. Maybe not quite enough to identify him, but that was not a risk he was willing to take. Part of being a successful serial killer was letting no victim alive to tell what they had seen. _Who_ they had seen.

And it was her fault anyway. If the girl hadn't gone looking for her boyfriend. If she had just stayed in her house watching mind numbing TV, she wouldn't be in her current situation because she wouldn't have seen him on the way to the park in his hoodie and leather jacket. On his way to kill her boyfriend. Murdering the kid in between, the one he made look like he had been huffing, had given him time to learn this girl's routine and fit her into his plan.

And the police still didn't have any suspects. Well, he supposed they did _have_ some. The usual: parents, girlfriend, boyfriend, neighborhood sex offender, but all their leads ran flat.

He supposed he shouldn't be too disappointed. No leads meant they were no closer to pinning the murder on him, and that meant he could continue to kill. But part of him longed for the next part of his plan. A few more murders and he'd lead them right to him.

He could see the girl now. Never had a more beautiful sight existed than that prone form scrambling to get away.

And he knew how to make that sight look absolutely…

breathtaking.

Oh, wait, that had been the last victim.

He already knew how he was going to kill this one, and he thought only of that was he continued toward her. His gait steady, calculating. He was in control.

"Ki, ki, ki, ha, ha, ha," he couldn't resist. Always wanted to do that. And his efforts to make the girl as scared as possible didn't go unrewarded. She started crying harder.

Actually that might have been because she was up against a fence. And on the other side…

A two story drop.

That led to a beautiful cherry tree orchard of sorts. Everything was going exactly the way he imagined.

"Why are you _doing_ this?" she screeched.

He just smiled and continued walking toward her. After all it wasn't fun to talk to victims until he was really close to them. Until he could read every fear, every doubt in their eyes.

She was a blubbering heap on the ground by the time he reached her. Her eyes big as saucers.

He wanted to rip them out of her head. But there was no need for that. That would only prolong her inevitable death. Which honestly he was all for. He loved prolonged suffering. But he had a timed schedule to work with.

So instead he bent down to her level and placed his arms on either side of her quivering form. As he kneeled on the ground he vaguely realized that his pants were getting wet from all the moisture that had already settled on the grass. His pants would probably be ruined, the fabric was temperamental. _Well, that's the price you pay for murder_ , he joked to himself.

"Please just let me go," she begged, snot dripping from her nose.

How… cute. He placed a gentle hand on her head and she looked up, a hopeful glint in her eyes.

"Oh, Abby," he began the same way someone might begin telling a child the toothfairy's not real, "I can't let you go, love. You've seen too much."

Before she could get so much as a gasp out of her overly chapped lips he brought his trusty can of spray paint down on her head.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five times.

And she stopped moving.

He then positioned her against the fence, arranging her so it looked as if she was merely resting, blood running down her face like sweat after a hard jog.

He stepped back, admiring his work, and felt desire rush through him.

They always looked more beautiful with red. If he was into necrophilia, he'd fuck her. But, alas, he wasn't. So it'd just be him and his hand again.

Just for shits and giggles (and probably because he was already horny) he decided to light her on fire.

He watched her slowly burn for as long as he could, basking in the warmth that only a human body could create. He got a whiff of the burning flesh and decided as much as he'd love to draw this pleasurable experience out, it was time to finish this project.

He walked close to the burning body and kicked, with all his force. The fence broke and pieces of wood and, of course his latest corpse fell the distance to the ground. He wasn't too worried about the fire spreading to the trees or he would have doused the flames. No sense in killing all of those beautiful plants for no reason.

He sprayed the ground by the break in the fence with the number 1:13.

"Another day's hard work done," he sang feeling satisfied with himself.

Now all he had to do was return the shoes he had _borrowed_ to their rightful owner and, of course, call his buddies at the police station. He dialed the familiar number.

"It's 1:13. Body number three is waiting by the fence and the cherry trees."

He threw his pay as you go phone down and started on his way to return the shoes.

Despite the fact that it was an add-on killing, he considered the night a success and his high spirits showed as he whistled one of his favorite melodies, _O Fortuna_ (he just loved Orff) as he walked off into the night.


	4. Victim Four

This one would be good. He rubbed his leather-clad hands together gleefully and waited with baited breath for what was sure to be another flawlessly executed murder. This one, oh _this one_ would be good. Unlike the first three, he wouldn't even touch this guy.

No. He couldn't bring himself to touch this man. He'd enjoy killing without getting his hands dirtied by such filth.

Because this guy had been his lover.

He actually wasn't sure if they still were, it had been complicated as of late, but he supposed soon it wouldn't matter. Because he'd be dead. And he would enjoy every second of the guy's demise.

If the man had been thinking with the larger of his heads, well... that wasn't likely. the guy was dumb as a post. And if he hadn't been his lover, he wouldn't be about to die.

The man's name was Nico Garcia. He was a university friend and casual fuck-buddy. He had called them lovers earlier, but there were no strong romantic feelings between the two or any illusions that there would ever be more than casual sex between the two of them. Still they had made a promise not to fuck around while they were together for health reasons. And Nico, Nico had been sticking his dick into anything that moved. Or so the rumors said.

The broad shouldered Latino had left his house alone almost fifty minutes ago, and he had wasted no time in setting up the kid's death.

He had done this bomb configuration many times in the past. It took a couple of tries to perfect the complicated set up. The first time he had done it was still his favorite, but he was hoping this incident would take its place. The first time though, oh man, it was _good_. He had been at a birthday party. He disappeared during one of the party games and set the bomb up so the next person to go into the bathroom would get a nasty surprise. Then he went back to the game. About an hour later he heard the bang. And, as luck would have it, it had been the birthday girl herself that had gotten the full force of the bomb.

And she didn't die.

His present to her would be there for the rest of her life. Every time she looked into the mirror and saw the burn scars that warped most of the left side of her body. She looked like a comic book villain.

He laughed at the memory. It had taken him two more tries before the bomb worked well enough to kill the person. He supposed it was his fault for using spray paint to make the bomb. But hey, it was his weapon of choice.

Now as the kid's car parked along the road he waited. He started whistling the dramatic melody from Holst's _Mars_ as the kid made his way to the front door of his hme.

The key clicked easily into the lock and the watching man fought back a smile, his whistling forgotten, as he waited, with bated breath, for the doorknob to turn.

Unbeknownst of the impending danger, Nico turned the door knob and opened his front door an imperceptible distance...

BOOM!

_Ahh_ , there it was.

More flash and fire than actually necessary, but that went without saying.

He loved fire.

And there the guy was on the ground, neck at an awkward angle. _Smoldering_.

It took everything in him not to go over and take a whiff. There'd be plenty of time for that shortly.

Now it was phone call time.

He smiled as he waited for the call connect. He had a rhyme he knew they'd all enjoy. _Especially_ that feisty Spanish one.

The usual woman picked up and began her greeting and he started his rhyme without allowing her to finish.

"Sizzle, sizzle little spick.  
shouldn't have thought with just his dick,  
fucked the wrong guy and now he's dead,  
sizzling and smoldering in the flower bed.  
This murder happened at two-one-four.  
At the rate you're solving them there'll be many more."

Mozart would have been happy with the little ditty he just made up.

Neighbors were starting to arrive at the scene. Some with phones in hand, no doubt to report the accident. Maybe tell the cops the actual address.

He moved quickly. There was still more to do before the cops arrived. Walking down the block he cut across the street nd walked up the alleyway that passed directly behind Nico's house.

He pulled the can of spray paint out of his hoodie (he had decided not to wear the leather jacket today in order to blend in better) and painted the number 2:14 in the grass behind his house. He threw the can of paint down and pulled the track phone he had used out and threw it down too. Then he took off his gloves and put them in his pocket for safe keeping.

He made his way back down the alley and heard the distant moan of sirens steadily getting closer to his location.

He pulled a baseball cap out of his hoodie pocket and, raking back hs hair, plopped it on his head.

The sirens had cut off and he knew that meant the cops had arrived. He headed back to the scene of his latest masterpiece.

Time to practice his acting skills and play the part of clueless bystander.

Time to see how stupid these cops were.

Walking up to a distressed bystander he asked, "What happened here?" voice full of so much fake concern.

The person turned to him, eyes wet wand wide, "Somebody fucking blew him up! I can't believe this!" He continued to babble on and on about Nico this and that. It was sickening.

He made his way closer to the caution tape. Close enough to hear what the cops were saying.

There was a name floating around. One that he never thought they'd link to the cases so soon. His name. Maybe the police were smarter than he thought.

If they were putting together the pieces this quickly, it was only a matter of time until he was caught.

And there was still one murder that he absolutely had to commit. He hated to do it, but he was gonna have to recycle a method of killing.

Probably the blow torch. It worked nicely, and smelled absolutely wonderful.

If he hurried, he could make his deadline before he was caught.


	5. Victim Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patric's not having a good day. Then again, neither is Marjorie.

" _Shit,_ " he hissed fumbling around his apartment for his shoes. "Where the fuck are they?" he growled in frustration. He was on a tight schedule and had something he needed to do. Outside.

Shoes were useful for that.

He scrambled around for another five minutes looking for the stupid things.

"Aw, fuck it," he muttered. He'd go without. It'd be fine.

Must have left his shoes at Mrs. Johnson's house.

He had been with the 71 year old for most of the morning taking care of... things. And now he was _so_ fucking late.

He grabbed all of his cans of spray paint and threw them in his bag and was out the door and down the street before the door even had time to shut.

He just didn't have time to wait.

He was already way behind schedule. It was supposed to be done by tomorrow.

Running down the sidewalk as fast as he could had him breathless... and it made it hurt al loot more when he ran into another person. His bag fell off his shoulder and the spray paint cans scattered, " _Shit_!" He scrambled to pick up the cans.

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry," the man he had run into apologized.

 _Yeah, you'd better be_ , he thought but decided to keep quiet.

The man handed him the rest of his paint cans and he took them from him with a glare, and hurried on his way.

"Have a nice night," the man said smugly, as if he knew something exciting was going to happen to him that night. He could just make out the cheerful whistling of some classical song before the man was out f earshot. Weirdo...

Finally made it to his destination. A beautiful brick wall that was all his for the painting. He sighed, content, and threw his bag down. Time to start the project.

He had it all planned out.

It was going to be a fantastic celestial scene with planets made up of swirling colors. Maybe a comet and some trippy spirals. It would be perfect for the amount of space he had. He started painting his base coat of black.

Polished off three cans just doing that.

Then he started on a planet. He sprayed a large layer of blue. Just a plain circle, and then sprayed a darker blue over top.

He pulled out his cloth and used it to creat a swirling pattern on the two colors. He stepped back to look at the planet. It needed some shading to give it depth, but it didn't look too bad...

He heard sirens off in the distance and smirked. Some poor fuck was getting theirs because they were too dumb to cover their own ass. He always made sure nothing ever was able to be traced back to him.

He moved to where he was going to paint his second planet and started the process over. A blue circle, smaller than the first one he made. A different color on top. Swirl it with the cloth.

 _Jesus,_ the sirens were getting loud.

A bright light flashed over him and then he was plunged into the near darkness again.

Then the lights were back and a car was coming down the street he was painting in.

A cop car.

With its sirens screaming.

Followed by another car.

And another...

His eardrums felt like they might burst.

Were they having some kind of chase?

Had the person passed by, or something?

Did he miss something?

The cars had stopped, maybe they were gonna continue chasing the person on foot?

Whatever, it didn't matter. He kept on painting.

The cars surrounding suddenly went eerily quiet. All of a sudden all three drivers side doors opened on the cars and armed police got out.

Their guns focused on him.

He stopped his painting. Eyes growing large as they focused on the three weapons aimed at him. They couldnt seriously be here for him, could they?

A booming authoritative voice shouted, "Drop the weapon!"

He looked at the only thing in his hand, the can of spray paint, with a slightly bemused expression on his face. A weapon? Hardly. More like an extension of his arm.

But still, if they thought it was a weapon, he'd play along, they had guns, after all. He let the spray paint fall to the ground.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," the same voice commanded.

He held up his hands so they could see he was unarmed and posed absolutely no threat.

The man who had been barking commands came walking toward him while his two buddies continued to point guns at him.

"put your hands behind your back," the man growled.

And he complied. He didn't want to make the situation worse than it already wa. After all, this was just a big misunderstanding. It was an approved graffiti, _mural_ , for a friend.

The man started roughly clasping his hands into a pair of cuffs.

"Patric Riot, you're under arrest," his heart hammered in his chest, nervous despite himself, "for the murder of Marjorie Johnson and four others."

"Well, fuck," he whined as they led him away.


	6. Questioning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patric learns just how screwed he is.

**Questioning**

A fist met the cool cement brick walls of the police headquarters. Jason Grant was mad. No, strike that, he was _fuming_. Never before had an interrogation session left him so agitated. He was in there for hours already with no sign of the annoying little rich kid cracking. “Sophie, this little shit’s not talking,” he all but growled at his only team member still at the precinct.

Sophie just blinked up at him sagely. “He will,” she pulled his hand away from the wall rubbing the tender knuckles, “just calm down, go in there and ask _smart_ questions.”

She watched as the man took a few deep breaths and turned back to the door.   Opening the door, Jay walked over to the table and began questioning their person of interest again. Sophie listened in from the outside, watching the scene unfold from the one-way window.

The first aggravating session that Jason had conducted with Patric Riot had focused on Marjorie Johnson. The boy was adamant that he had nothing to do with her, but admitted to being with her most of the day. Apparently he left about an hour and a half before the suspected time of the murder, and was working on a mural for the old woman when he was apprehended by the police. Further incriminating evidence was the off white spray paint can that was left in his bag. It was an analyzed match to the paint flakes found at the crime scene. Yet the kid denied that even being his paint. Said the color was ugly and he would never use it for anything.

Patric sighed as the man questioning him came in for round two. He just didn’t understand what was happening. Mrs. Johnson was dead? He had just been with her that morning.   It didn’t seem real. And the police seemed to think he was responsible for all of this. Based on spray paint. There had to be more evidence than that. Nobody could be convicted on spray paint alone. Could they? He sure hoped not or he was royally fucked.

Jason sat down at the table glaring at the chained punk on the other side. He just screamed rich kid. His hair was dyed a borderline bleach blond and his clothing looked expensive. There was this air to him that said he was riding on daddy’s coat tails and would never have to actually be a functioning contributing member of society. He could just go crying to daddy like the sniveling little silver spoon licking shit he was. _And_ he vandalized on top of that. It was well known that Patric Riot had been given several tickets for defacement of property. But he had never had to pay any of them. Something about the person deciding that they actually wanted the graffiti there, like they commissioned it or something. Jason knew better than to believe that. It was that damn silver spoon known as daddy’s connections. He was sure the man had paid the person big to look the other way as their property was defaced.

“Okay, so _clearly_ we’re not getting anywhere with Marjorie Johnson. Let’s try some of the other names on this little list,” Jason growled out trying his best to intimidate the kid across from him.

Unimpressed with the cop’s roughness Patric answered with a question, “Just out of curiosity, how many names are on that list?” He wanted to know exactly how many people he supposedly killed.

“I’m asking the questions,” the man barked out. Patric had the strange feeling his bark was probably not worse than his bite.

He gave a placating gesture as best he could with his hands cuffed to the chair. “By all means, ask away,” then he waited for Jason to question him.

The man sat up straighter and seemed to pull an I-pad out of nowhere. _Clearly questioning a suspect has entered the 21 st century, _Partic thought drolly as he waited patiently for the brutish cop to fumble his way to the right page.

Then the questioning began. “Where were you on the night of August 13, 2015?”

Patric did everything in his power to prevent himself from rolling his eyes, but judging by the deepening scowl on Jason’s face, he didn’t succeed. “I can barely remember what I ate for breakfast, and you want me to remember what I was doing back in August? Are you going to ask that for every single person?”

The cop’s face darkened to a deep angry red. He was trying so hard to reign in his temper but this smug defiant man sitting across from him was making it so difficult. Jay just managed to hiss out an angry, “yes,” before he took a ragged angry breath in, trying to calm himself.

Patric blinked, surprised at how easily the cop was riled up. “Okay then, big guy, I’ll try and answer your stupid questions.”

It was as if Patric had spoken some kind of magic words. He watched in fascination as Jay’s color returned to a healthy tan.

“Alright, same question: where were you on the night of August 13, 2015?”

“As it just so happens, I was in the park that night,” Patric smiled smugly. He had known exactly where he was that night. It was the Persied meteor shower after all.

Jason looked at the man dumbfounded. It couldn’t be that easy. Why would he just come out and say he was in the park? He had to hear the reports on the body being found in the park. “And why were you at the park, Mr. Riot?”

“Well, if you must know, I’m really into astronomy and that just happened to be the peak of a meteor shower. You were supposed to be able to see 50-75 meteors in an hour and the moon was a crescent. The parks so dark and-“

“ _That’s_ great, I get it, you like science,” Jason cut him off. He so didn’t need a science lesson right now. Still being in the park watching a meteor shower wasn’t exactly an air tight alibi, especially with the murder taking place in said park.

“Was anyone with you?”

The boy clicked his tongue against his teeth, “Nobody in my family shares my _affinity_ for the outdoors. The only people with me were a few people with nowhere to go for the night who decided to sit down and watch the meteor shower with me.”

There was a sense of bitterness to wat the boy said that Jason found fascinating despite himself. The kid’s family, it seemed, didn’t want to spend time with the boy. Whatever… “’People with nowhere to go?’” he asked instead.

“You know,” Patric nodded his head, then seeing that Jason actually didn’t know what he was hinting at all he elaborated, “homeless people.”

Right… Jay decided to try a different rout. “What is your connection with a Mr. Zabien Fitzgerald?”

Strangely enough, the suspect’s face went pale. “I-Is that who we’re talking about now?”

Jason just nodded his head.

“ _Fuck_.” Patric went to rake his hands through his hair, his face scrunching up in disgust when he remembered those pesky handcuffs on his wrists. “Zabien’s dead?” he asked voice small.

Again Jay nodded.

“He was my lab partner in chem., fucking brilliant, that guy.”

“Well now he’s fucking _dead,_ ” Jason growled. He smirked when Patric flinched at the biting words.

“But, him and Abby were going to get married,” the kid all but whined. ‘Why did this happen? Why would someone _do_ this?”

Jason fixed a grim expression on his face. “That’s what my team and I are trying to figure out. And, unfortunately for you, you’re the prime suspect in this case.”

“I wouldn’t kill Zabien!” Patric hissed vehemently.

“That remains to be decided,” Jay spoke coolly. He still was under the impression that everything this kid was spouting out of those pouty lips was complete and utter bullshit.   And while they were on the subject of Mr. Fitzgerald’s girlfriend, “Where were you on the night of September 16, 2015?”

“Why?   Who died then?”

Jay tried to ignore the fact that Patric kept answering his questions with _fucking_ questions, how annoying, and just answered the kid, “A Miss Abby King.”

Patric’s back went ramrod straight. “Abby too?”

“Yes. My guess is, she wasn’t a planned kill. I think she saw something when you murdered her boyfriend and you were trying to cover her tracks. After all, her only real connection to you was through Zabien, am I right?” Jason spouted off quickly hoping to trip the kid up.

“Yes?” Patric answered. “Wait, I mean no! _No_ because I didn’t kill Zabien… or Abby. I didn’t. I didn’t even know they were dead.”

Ever the skeptic Jason asked, “How could you not know they were dead?” It’s not like the killings hadn’t been all over the news, _all_ the time.

“I don’t watch the news much,” Patric answered as if he had heard what the cop was thinking.

A buzzer went off and Sophie’s voice floated into the room over the speaker system. “Jason, take a break, I’ll continue question the suspect.”

Jay wanted to argue with the girl, but he really could use a break. His eyes were watering from staring at the notebook screen so long and his neck was getting stiff. He also could use a few minutes away from the sniveling, lying pretty boy across from him. Standing up, Jason made his way over to the door. “Be good for Sophie, or you’ll get it when I come back.” He threatened.

“Really, _Jason_ , threats are so unbecoming,” the cheeky little shit had the audacity to say as Sophie took his place in the room.

Jason growled as he went to relieve himself and get a coffee.

Back in the room Sophie took in the chained up figure sitting across from her. He was putting on a brave face but she could tell this rough treatment was getting to him. He didn’t look it, but Sophie could tell he was a gentle soul. Behind that bad boy haircut and rich clothing was someone who was doing their best with the lot life gave to them.

Patric was stunned at the switch from Jason to Sophie. She was pretty much the complete opposite of him in just about every way. He had been loud and intimidating, her soft spoken and looked like she couldn’t even hurt a fly.

“What is your connection to a Mr. Ezekiel Benet?” she asked him voice barely above a whisper.

“Zeke too?” it almost came out as a sob. Sophie noted the look of utter despair on the boy’s face.

“Yes. The killer tried to make it look like a suicide,” she supplied trying to get him to say anything.

“I tutored him,” he spoke hollowly. All the fight left him.

“Did you have a tutor date with him on August 29, 2015?”

“Was that a Saturday?” he asked, voice cracking. Patric swallowed, dreading the answer.

“Yes.”

“I tutored him. From 6:00-9:00 that night.”

“And what did you do after that?” Sophie asked pressing for some details that might help the kid out.

He looked at her, gaze totally defeated, “Nothing that will make me look like I didn’t kill him.”

Taking pity on the miserable boy, she moved on to the last name on the list. “What about Nico Garcia?”

And here the boy cried. “Nico,” he sobbed not able to stop the floodgate of emotions that came rushing out at the mention of the last name.

Sophie watched as Patric tried to compose himself. “He was my ex-boyfriend.” He said hollowly.

“Of how long?”

Here Patric let out a sardonic sort of chuckle, “Honestly only about three months, and we never were too serious, but I cared about him, you know.”

“You do know you’re here because all of the murders have a common theme,” she informed the boy.

Patric nodded his head, “I’m guessing spray paint?”

That was why they had reacted so badly to his spray paint when they took him in for questioning. He watched her nod her head, “that and _you_.”

With those chilling words Sophie Porter exited the room leaving Partic alone and chained to that chair.

Realization dawned on him that all this evidence they had pointed to him. Why, he wasn’t sure, but it did and he’d be convicted unless he did dome fast thinking.

And where was that brutish guy? Surely his break had been long enough. Patric couldn’t feel his leg anymore, it went numb from sitting so long. How long were they planning to let him in this room alone?

So he sat and waited for something to happen. He had this funny feeling they were both watching from the other side of that annoying one way window. While he waited he slowly formed a plan.

Once all the details were figured out in his mind Patric called out tone sounding surprisingly bored, “Hey guys, I’m kind of tired of sitting in here. I’d like to strike some kind of deal.”

No sooner had the sentence been uttered and the door was flung open. A smug looking Jason Grant sauntered into the room, “Now we’re talking.” He plopped himself down at the table and motioned for Patric to speak.

“Okay, so I know you think I’m guilty,” Jay scoffed there, “and, I’ll admit that it does look, even to me, like I could have killed these people. But I didn’t.” Here Patric leaned forward in his seat. “Here’s the thing, I’ve always wanted to solve a mystery like the great Sherlock Holmes. Let me find the real killer.” His voice was strong and steady thrumming with a confidence he was hoping would win them over.

Jason shared a look with Sophie. Should they take the kid up on his offer? Something inside was telling him it was pointless. The kid was obviously the murderer, and one hell of an actor. He’d slip up or the evidence would speak for itself in court and that would be the end of his lies. But another smaller part, deep down inside, wondered if maybe, just _maybe_ this kid deserved a chance. Usually Jason was all about giving second chances. Did a snobbish rich boy that did absolutely nothing productive in society deserve that second chance?

As much as it pained him, Jay knew he was going to give Patric Riot this chance.

He looked the boy straight in the eyes and announced his decision, “You’ve got one week to convince me you’re not our guy,” Jason looked down at his watch, it was nearing 12.00 pm, “starting _now._ ”


	7. Day One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the lovely week of hell starts.

There was definitely going to be a permanent scowl on Jason's face after this week. He was standing outside his nondescript white siding, green shuttered, cute little town house (complete with a rare backyard) with a fucking graffiti spray painting punk who was definitely born sucking on a silver spoon _and_ had no clue how hard the average Joe had it. This was _not_ how things were supposed to turn out.

Patric cast a worried glance towards his guard dog. Thought the name was only too fitting considering the man had been growling in displeasure since leaving the station with him. After he had suggested they give him a week to prove he was innocent and they had agreed (he still couldn't believe that) the problem became where he should stay for that time. Going home was out of the question for a number of reasons, the most obvious being he was the prime suspect in a murder case.

So Sophie suggested he stay with Jay, after all there was plenty of room in his house. Jason had, obviously been less than thrilled with the suggestion and very vocal about what he thought about it  _and_  Patric. Then Sophie suggested Patric go to _her_ house. Suddenly Jason was only too happy to let Patric stay with him, if only to protect Sophie.

They fit Patric with a brand new piece of jewelry that blinked and had a fancy tracking device so they'd know his every move. If he went outside the okayed area an alarm would sound alerting Jay and his team of Patric's escape. And the area was so _small._ The anklet pretty much allowed him to go to Jason's house and the precinct which was an alarmingly small area (pun intended). That small distance didn't even include the soup kitchen Patric helped at all the time. The soup kitchen's owner, Russell, was going to be upset when Patric told him he wouldn't be able to help out for at least a week.

That brought him to now, standing outside Officer Jason Grant's humble abode while the man continued to snarl and grumble about spoiled rich kids  _literally_ getting away with murder.

"I can't believe he's staying at my house," the man muttered glaring at the kid next to him without actually speaking to Patric.

Patric glared right back at him, "This wasn't exactly my idea, here, buddy."

He took a risk and pat the man on the shoulder causing Jason to jump forward with an agitated noise and finally pull out his keys, opening his front door.

He walked into the house first and Patric had to admit he was surprised Jay hadn't slammed the door in his face. Maybe the man would let up on the hostilities.

 

* * *

 

 

Jay scrubbed a hand through his hair. It had been one hell of a day. He decided the best remedy for it would be to go to sleep now. He walked straight through his kitchen and turned right down the hallway where his bedroom resided. He passed the guestroom/office and the bathroom before reaching the room he actually cared about: his bedroom.

It was when he was about to open the door that he remembered his rather uninvited house guest. He whipped around to see Patric standing a few paces behind him looking small and uncertain, arms wrapped around himself as if to ward off all of the unfamiliararities in the small house. Jay swung his door open a little too roughly and he smirked when the boy jumped from the noise of his door roughly hitting the wall. Jason swiftly entered his room. Turning around he fixed a hard glare at Patric for the thousandth time that night, "Don't even think about using my guest room." He punctuated the end of this exchange by slamming his bedroom door shut and locking it. He didn't trust the kid to not take advantage of a sleeping cop when he had kitchen knives at his disposal.

 

* * *

 

 

Patric stood there gaping at the door, mouth almost hitting the floor in disbelief. What was that guy's problem? And then he remembered, he's apparently a murderer.

If this was somebody's idea of a sick joke, it wasn't funny in the slightest. Heck, it had already caused five people he cared about to lose their lives. He didn't want anyone else to get hurt because the police had something against graffiti artists.

So he couldn't use Jason’s guest room?

Whatever, he'd survived worse situations. He walked out to where the front door was visible, standing in between the kitchen and the living room. There had to be something he could sleep on out here. Glancing to the kitchen Patric saw two options. The kitchen table or the counter top. But he figured Jason wouldn't like the idea of  _anyone_ , let alone Patric, sleeping on surfaces where he prepared and consumed food. He stepped closet to the living room.

That's where he saw what he'd be sleeping on. He walked over to it. It was a three cushioned couch, blue cloth and slightly worn, but one of the softest things he had ever felt, he realized happily as he ran his fingers lightly over a cushion. Yeah, this couch would definitely do. Before he could even think of all the horrors of the night Patric was asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Jason couldn't sleep. He couldn't believe what his peaceful life had become. All those people killed. The evidence all pointed to one person: Patric Riot. And the insufferable kid still insisted that he was innocent. With those large earnest gray eyes and his feather soft blond hair framing the delicate features of his face, the rich pretty boy had Sophie eating out of the palm of his hands.

Well, Jay decided he wouldn't be moved so easily by a pair of beautiful eyes.

He just hoped this week would go by without incident, like he could be that lucky, and in about six day’s time he'd be dragging Patric Riot to trial with five accounts of murder in the first degree. Jay rolled over to look at his alarm clock, 2:41am. He should get some sleep, but first he decided to relieve himself. No way could he hold it until he was supposed to wake up. Rolling out of bed Jay plodded from his room to the bathroom. After he had finished draining the main vein Jason decided it was in his best interest to check on his resident serial killer. He glanced into the guest bedroom and was happy to see that the punk wasn't in the room. Hadn't so much as touched it.

But he kind of wondered where the kid was sleeping if he wasn't in the guest room. He walked into the main living area and froze. No. That wouldn't do at all.

There on his couch,  _his couch,_ Patric Riot was sleeping soundly. His clothing was slightly rumpled from what was, no doubt a fitful slumber and, Jay noted, his hair didn't lose that feathery quality even in sleep. He kind of wanted to touch it... Shaking his head to clear his derailing thoughts, Jay quickly closed the distance between them and without a second thought yanked the kid off of his furniture.

Patric landed with a yelp on the floor. "What the fuck," he whined looking up to a, once again, livid Jason. He had been so _comfortable._

"Stay off of my furniture," Jay growled a low and dangerous sound that promised pain if Patric didn't do as told.

Patric looked up at the man from his position on the floor. "Where am I supposed to sleep then?" He didn't sound angry like Jason expected, more resigned.

"Don't know, don't care," Jay promptly left the room.

He was almost at his bedroom door when he heard Patric's sort tenor coming from the living room. Sneaking back towards the living room Jason listened intently, trying to catch what the kid was saying. He realized, as he got closer, that the little shit was definitely using Jay's landline phone, as they had left Patric's phone at the precinct. The kid was making a phone call at nearly three in the morning. If someone called Jay at that time, he'd be so pissed.

"Mia," Jason heard the boy say sounding more desperate than Jay had ever heard him, "what did I do to deserve this utter shit show?"

Jay could certainly relate to that statement.

"They think I'm a murderer!" he cried excitedly.

There was a pause, then Patric sighed, "I know, I know." Boy did Jay wish he could hear the other side of this phone call.

"Hey, will you let Russell know I'll be missing for at least a week. Tell him I'm sorry." It actually sounded like the kid was being sincere. Whoever Russell was, he was important to the kid. Maybe he should look into who these people were... Russell and Mia.

"Yeah, alright, I'll let you get back to sleep," there was another slight pause, "love you too."

Jay heard the kid let out a sob as he hung up the phone and decided it was time he got back to sleep too. He had a lot of questions he wanted to ask Patric Riot but those could wait, after all, they were stuck together for the next week whether they liked it or not.


	8. Day Three

* * *

Jay sighed, he just woke up and already he felt exhausted.  It's been a tense couple of days at the Grant house and he didn't see conditions getting any better.  Not with Patric Riot lurking around the place.  Jason still was giving him the extreme cold shoulder only answering his, albeit few, attempts at conversation with barely audible grunts and not allowing the boy to use anything in the house.  Realistically, he knew the kid had to at least be using the kitchen at night, after all, he didn't complain about being hungry, but he never did anything to induce Jason's rage, that is, if he could help it. 

And that aggravated the hell out of Jason. 

He wanted to hate this kid but, besides the whole 'he's probably a murderer' thing and the vandalizing of public property Patric seemed to be a pretty decent person.  Maybe Jay could ease up on some of the hostility and give the kid a break.  Shaking his head to dislodge those thoughts, he reminded himself once again that the kid was a _murderer_.  Even worse, a serial killer.

He begrudgingly left the sanctuary of his bedroom and made his way down the hall stopping at the guest room to make sure his rather forced guest wasn't sullying the place with his mere presence and saw that the thick winter blankets he had on the bed weren't there. Honestly, this discovery had Jay only slightly vexed.  He'd expected the kid to take the blankets much sooner.  It was getting cold outside and Patric had absolutely nothing.  Resigned to the fact that he'd have to wash his sheets after this week, at least ten times, to be satisfied that Patric Riot's self had been washed out of them Jay made his way to the kitchen intent on yelling at the boy as soon as he saw him.  He'd probably be curled up, snug as a bug, on Jay's couch.

But when Jason spotted his couch it didn't contain any of his blankets or Patric.  He hastily looked around the room for the boy.  Over in the corner nearest his back door were the blankets, looking very well used, in a wrinkled heap.  But Patric was nowhere to be found.  Jason tried not to panic as he looked around the rest of the house for the criminal.  As each room came up empty he felt his heart rate steadily increasing.  Where could that fucking fuck have gone that didn't set off the warning bells on his tracking device?

Fearing the worst, Jason called the precinct, dialing his room's extension number, and hoping beyond hope that one of his super dedicated teammates decided to get up at the ass crack of dawn on this fine morning.  To his surprise, and relief, someone answered. "What the fuck do you want?" the cheerful voice of Montoya growled into the phone.

"And good morning to you too," Jay greeted before dramatically changing his tone.  "I can't find Riot _anywhere_."

"You're shitting me," she intoned flatly.

"I wish I was," serious as the plague, Jason continued, "but it's weird, that fancy bracelet didn't go off."

"And you checked everywhere?  Isn't he supposed to come in with you soon?"

"Yes I checked everywhere.  I'm not _stupid_ Montoya.  And yeah, we're supposed to be in later today," really, they were supposed to have been there already.

"Did you check outside?" she asked dully.  Montoya knew her boss well enough to know he wasn't at full thinking capacity until he'd had about two cups of coffee, and from the sound of his aggravated grunts of conversation, he hadn't gotten to drink any of the magical elixir today.

"Shit!" Jason had never even thought about looking _outside_.  Who would go out in such cold temperatures?  There was frost on the ground for Christ's sake!

Hanging up the phone without so much as a goodbye, Jason fumbled his way to the front door to see if Patric might be perched on the steps there.  When he saw nothing Jason bolted to the back door.  Walking out into the back yard, Jason began to look. He halted at the large maple tree on his property.  It had lost all of its leaves for the coming of winter standing tall and proud near the back corner of his yard.  He thought he saw movement around the back side of the trunk.  Was that a foot?

Jay crept closer walking around to the back of the tree.  And there lay Patric Riot at the base of the tree asleep and shivering, lips tinted blue.  Evidently the kid didn't feel comfortable enough to sleep in his house.  Jay felt a pang of sympathy coarse through him that he shoved away and ignored by kicking the kid in the foot. Patric jumped, waking up quickly.

"Get up, it's time to go," with that said, Jason headed back into the warmth of his house, Patric scrambling after him.

 

* * *

 

Patric was seated at the table starting at a totally underwhelming folder.  "This is it?" he asked incredulously.

"Yeah," Jason answered with a glare.

Patric opened the folder looking at the stark amount of pages, using his thumb to quickly leaf through them, "This is all it took for me to be accused?"

Sophie sat down next to him giving him a consoling pat on the shoulder, "It is when the evidence is so conclusive."

Well, shit.

Patric read through the files trying to quickly find things that linked the murders.  Spray paint.  Phone calls.  Leather gloves.  Times reported.  And the most chilling:  He knew them all.

There was a clearing of a throat and Patric looked up to see Sophie offering him a slice of pizza. "You're a goddess," he grabbed the piece and started scarfing it down. 

Sophie started at him wide eyed, "You're acting as if you haven't eaten in days."

"I haven't." Looking around the small room Patric noticed that they were the only two in the room.  He actually couldn't believe they'd left one of their own alone with him.  Sure he was living with Jason, but Sophie was different.  She made people want to protect her. Jason, on the other hand, made people want to punch him in the face.  "Where's everyone else?"

"They went for lunch."

"Oh."

Handing Patric another slice of pizza, Sophie made a note to yell at Jason for not feeding the boy.  He was already too skinny.  Skipping a meal wasn't good.

After having eaten three pieces of pizza Patric sighed content and leaned back in his seat enjoying the gentle non-judgmental company of Sophie Porter.  "How long before everyone's back?" he asked.

Glancing at the clock Sophie answered, "About ten minutes."

"Then what's gonna happen?" he thought it was a legit question.  Patric had been reading the case flies all morning.  Was he going back to it in the afternoon or was there something else they had planned for him to work on?

"We're going to let you listen to the audios," Sophie admitted looking at him like she'd done something wrong.

Patric let out a shaky breath.  He'd been excluding to hear them eventually.  The words the killer spoke right after killing his friends.  He turned to Sophie and tried to smile reassuringly at her, "Thanks for the warning."

She merely nodded.  They spent the rest of the time in companionable silence.

 

* * *

 

 

The rest of the team clamored into their workroom.  Montoya was talking loudly about how boring her morning had been to the captive audience of Isabelle Platt.  Who Patric noticed was carrying a bag of some kind of nuts.  Every few seconds she'd reach her hand into the bag and pop a few more into her mouth.

No sooner had they taken their seats at the table than Jason strode into the room looking confident and in far better spirit than he had been in a while.  Patric had a feeling his dark mood was largely because of a new resident in his home.  Looking around Jason clapped his hands together and addressed the room.  "Alright _ladies_ ,” here Montoya cleared her throat and, none too discreetly, motioned to Patric, "and criminal," Jason amended, "hope you brought your popcorn, because we're gonna be listening to those _wonderful_ call-ins again."

"Aww, why're you doing this to me boss?" Montoya whined.  "They were hard enough to get through the first time."

"Shut up you," Jay said, not unkindly, "Or resident _Sherlock_ has yet to hear them." _That is if he wasn’t the one to make them_ , Jay tacked on in his head.

There was some fiddling around with a laptop on Sophie’s end and then she pronounced them ready to go.

Patric waited, scarcely breathing, to hear the voice on the recordings.   The voice of a killer. “ _It’s 3:09 am. Tell your boys to go to the park. I’ve left them a little present alone in the dark._ ”

Patric waited for more. When nothing else was said for a couple of seconds he looked around the table to see all eyes focused on him. “Was that it?”

Sophie sighed as everyone just looked at one another, apparently nobody would actually talk to Patric but her. “That was it for the first one.”

“Zabien?” Patric questioned.

Sophie just nodded.

“Can I hear the next one?”

Without a word Sophie started the next recording.

“ _It’s 1:01 am. You’ll find body number two not far from the first. Find the link between Fitzgerald and Benet. Do your worst.”_

At the name drop Patric sat up straighter in his seat, “He just admitted they’re linked?”

Sophie shook her head.

“Wait, I’m the link, aren’t I?” Patric realized voice going flat.

To his surprise Montoya answered, “Gee, and here I thought you were _stupid_ or something. Good job putting that together,” her sarcasm was so thick Patric recoiled afraid it would smother him.

Sophie hit play.

“ _It’s 1:13am. Body number three is waiting by the fence and the cherry trees._ ”

That was Abby. Patric just sat in his chair listening to the words spoken right after his friends’ deaths. It was jarring. The man was there, probably right next to them, when he made these calls. Fresh after killing them. It almost seemed like he was bragging about the crimes. How could a human being act like this after killing another human being?

Seeing his distress Sophie asked as gently as she could, “Do you want to stop.”

He immediately shook his head. If he agreed to stop, he’d never want to listen to the last two recordings. But Patric also knew that the two victims left would be harder to stomach, even, than the first three. He and Nico had a _romantic_ relationship and Mrs. Johnson. God, he had loved that woman. She was everything he wanted in a parental figure. Kind but stern an avid story teller and a good listener and now, he’d never get to hear one of her stories again. Never see her smiling face as she laughed at some clumsy thing he did. In a small voice he requested, “Please play the last two.”

Sophie looked like she thought it was a bad idea but did as he asked. She watched him carefully as he listened to the recording about Nico Garcia.

“ _Sizzle, sizzle little spick_ ,” here Patric adopted a look of confusion but whether it was because of the use of the childlike song to recite this crime or something else, she didn’t know. “ _Shouldn’t have thought with just his dick_ ,” It looked like there might be tears in his eyes. And also like he might vomit. He looked shaky and pale. Sophie must not have been the only one who noticed this because there was a waste basket shoved roughly into his lap in case he decided to blow. “ _Fucked the wrong guy and now he’s dead, sizzling and smoldering in the flower bed. This murder happened at two-one nine. At the rater you’re solving tem I’ll be just fine_.”

Jason watched the kid for his reaction kind of hoping he’d hurl. He was a little disappointed when Patric took a deep breath and seemed to collect himself. “There were so many things wrong with that, I don’t even know where to begin,” the boy finally spoke.

Jay gave him a sharp look, not expecting those words, especially because his team hadn’t found it anymore relevant than the rest of the recorded evidence. Crap, he was going to have to have a conversation with this kid. “I don’t care where the fuck you begin as long as you start talking.”

Patric just stared at the man slack-jawed for a minute, shocked that Jason had spoken a full sentence to him. “I-I guess I’ll start from the beginning,” he took a few minutes to collect himself then began his explanation. “Nico wasn’t Hispanic,” he began addressing the derogatory first line of the call. Four sets of eyes were immediately hanging off of his every word.

“Nico _Garcia_ wasn’t Hispanic?” Montoya asked.

“Nope,” Patric answered popping his _P_. “He was one hundred percent Syrian.”

“Then how’d he get a last name like Garcia?” Isabelle asked around a mouthful of nuts.

Montoya muttered under her breath, “How’d _you_ get the last mane of _Platt_?” causing Isabelle to throw some of her nuts at her.

Completely ignoring the childish display Patric explained, “He moved here with his mother when he was eight after the death of his biological father, Here, his mom married a man with the last name Garcia and they agrees that Nico should take on his last name.”

“Ohh,” Montoya was the first to recover after that explanation.

“That also means it was someone who only paid attention to his name. Also ‘ _fucked the wrong guy_ ,’” Patric spat angrily. “I don’t know how the killer _knew_ that.”

“What do you mean?” Sophie asked slowly.

“I broke up with Nick because he couldn’t be monogamous.”

“Huh?” Montoya piped in.

“ _Monogamous,_ dummy,” Platt snapped, “Nico was cheating on him.”

Montoya rounded on her, “I know what fucking monogamous means. I mean,” she looked at Patric almost apologetically, “I just always heard you two were fuck buddies.”

“Why do people always say that?” Patric groaned embarrassed. Jason noticed his cheeks had heated to a nice shade of pink. “I’ve never had a _fuck buddy_ in my life.”

“Now _that_ I don’t believe,” Jay spoke.

“Good thing I don’t care what you think then, _huh_?” Patric shot back quickly.

“Patric,” Sophie interjected hoping to get this conversation back on track, “did you notice anything else different about this call?”

Smiling gratefully at Sophie’s none too subtle subject change Patric said, “Yeah, just a slight difference. Is this the only one out of the five calls that didn’t start with the time?”

As soon as Patric asked that Jason realized that it _was_ the only one that didn’t start with the time. But he didn’t think it was something that was necessarily significant and he said as much to the boy. “We’ll make note of it, but if I had a guess, the guy just changed the order around so it worked better with the tune of _Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star_.”

Patric nodded, that made sense to him. Just about as much as anything else about the serial killer made sense.

There was only one more recording to go and it was Mrs. Johnson’s. He wasn’t sure if he could handle listening to what the killer said about her. Before he could chicken out Sophie pressed play. The voice of the killer was once again filling the room, “ _It’s 4:09 pm. I’ve gone to her house to pass the time. Mrs. Johnson’s old, it was a mercy crime._ ”

At that Patric jumped up sending the trash can clattering to the ground. He was so angry. How could anyone say that about Mrs. Johnson? How could anyone _do_ that to her?

He swore.

Jason raised an eyebrow. He was pretty sure the kid just spoke in another language, either that or he sneezed. But, then again, didn’t rich kids usually know several languages? He didn’t know. He wasn’t some privileged white boy.

Said privileged white boy looked like he wanted to break something. He settled for kicking the trash can across the room with more force than Jason thought he had. It hit the wall with a clang. Jason saw instantly that his poor can was damaged beyond repair.

“ _Oi_! What did my trash can ever do to you?”

“The trash can? Nothing. You? You let the real killer get away with murdering _five_ people and only have me to show for it,” Patric hissed madder than Jason had ever seen him.

“According to our evidence, you’re pretty much a shoe in for the roll of the murderer,” Jay reminded the furious blond curtly.

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. “Fuck your evidence. It’s not worth _shit_.”

“And by the end of this week you’ll have proved that,” Sophie reminded the boy sweetly.

That little bit of kindness directed at him was enough to send Patric over the edge emotionally. He collapsed into his chair in a boneless heap and sobbed.

 

* * *

 

 

An hour later Jason walked back into his team’s office. He had taken Patric back to his house after the pussy had calmed down a little bit. Now it was just him and his three favorite girls, excluding his mother, of course. He sat down roughly at the table with the rest of his team. “So, what do you think?” He looked at each in turn, for their reaction on the events of the afternoon.

Montoya was the first to answer, albeit, rather reluctantly, “Boss, hate to say it, but I don’t think he’s the killer.”

“Too green,” Isabelle agreed.

Sophie just nodded her head. Finally they agreed with what she had thought all along.

Sighing, Jason spoke, choosing his words carefully, “I get the feeling he’s a good actor,” at the outrages looks on his girls’ faces he could tell they thought Jason was going to say he didn’t believe Patric’s little spectacle earlier apparently he had the three women completely believing his innocent act. And Jay had to admit, he was pretty close to believing it too. “But I don’t think he’s _that_ good at acting.”

“So what do we do?” Sophie asked grinning now that she knew the man believed Patric at least somewhat.

“We let him have his week to prove he’s innocent,” Jason stated as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

A heavy silence followed his words until Platt asked the question on everyone’s mind. “What if he can’t?”

“Hopefully he finds _something_. If not, Patric Riot’s going to trial for crimes he didn’t commit.”

 

* * *

 

 

Patric woke up to his Phone ringing. He immediately realized several things. He was laying on Jason’s couch covered with a blanket. His head was absolutely killing him from that horrid display of emotion earlier and his phone was ringing. _His_ phone, which meant that Jason had gotten his stuff from the precinct for him.

Scrambling for the annoying ringing electronic, Patric quickly answered it so it would stop its shrill noise.

“Hello,” he greeted flatly. He really didn’t feel much like talking to anyone right now. Probably shouldn’t have answered.

“Patric!   How comes you’re not coming to help me anymore?” the accusatory voice of Russell whined through the speaker.

Wincing, Patric pulled the phone away from his ear and decided it would hurt him a lot less if he put the thing on speaker. “I can’t, Russell, not for this week,” Patric explained.

“Oh?” Russell questioned. “Why not?”

“I’m” Patric paused trying to think of something he could tell the man that wasn’t a lie but wasn’t the whole truth either. He settled for, “I’m helping the police with their latest case.”

“The police? _Really_?” Russell’s disgust was evident. “What have the police ever done for you? Did they come when your daddy was beating the _shit_ out of you and your sister? No!”

And Patric couldn’t even refute his words. Because everything Russell said was true.

Even so, Jason and his team weren’t there when Patric’s problems were occurring, so he saw no reason to show them any hostility. Instead of further fueling Russell’s rant Patric decided to change the subject to the only one he knew would get Russell to stop.

“How’s Miranda doing?”

Russell moaned in despair, “Not good, Patric, she misses you something awful. I don’t know how she’s gonna take it if you don’t come back all week.” Miranda was one of the regulars at the soup kitchen. She had been homeless for many years and turned to dark ways to make money. Ever since Patric started helping her she had been doing better. Russell had a huge crush on the girl. But Miranda seemed to only have eyes for Patric.

“Don’t tell her,” normally Patric would never say anything like that but with Miranda’s past she had some abandonment issues and it was better for her not to know. He’d come back next week and she’d be none the wiser.

“Oh no, Patric,” Russell whispered, “I have to tell her.”

“Fine Russell,” he wasn’t going to argue with the man, “Just don’t tell her I’ll be gone for a whole week. Tell her I’ll be back soon.”

“Alright, I’ll see you soon Patric,” Russell chirped.

“Yeah, see you next week,” Patric smiled gently hanging up the phone.

Today ad been exhausting. He shut his phone off and snuggled into the warmth of the blanket feeling safe and comfortable for the first time in a long time laying on the couch of the police officer who was probably going to arrest him.

 

* * *

 

 

Jason and Sophie were walking out of the precinct together. Montoya and Platt had left earlier and Jason had a suspicion that they were going on a date. Sophie looked at him, her usually gentle gaze hard as steel, “What’s this I hear about you not feeding your _guest_?”

“ _What_!” Jason had no idea where this was coming from.

“Patric… today at lunch I gave him food and commented on him eating so fast and you know what he told me?”

Jay just waited for her to answer the question she asked. It sounded more rhetorical anyway.

“He told me he hadn’t eaten in _days_ ,” She glared at him and smacked him on the shoulder, “ _days_ Jay! Just because you don’t like him very much doesn’t give you the right to starve him.”

“I didn’t,” he tapered off when her glare intensified, “ _fuck_.”

“Fix it,” she ordered firmly before walking to her car to go home.

How was Jason supposed to know the dumb fuck wasn’t eating? Really, was he supposed to watch the guy twenty-four/seven? Maybe he should watch him in the bathroom to make sure he wiped his ass too. But… he really didn’t know Patric wasn’t eating. He’d just assumed… well, you know what they say about assumptions.

Jason was getting this sinking feeling that Patric Riot’s life hadn’t been as charmed as he had been led to believe. He was still a vandalizing graffiti punk, but maybe there were reasons for his actions. _Fuck_ , Jay’d probably have to start being nicer to him now.


	9. Day Five

 

This wasn't supposed to happen. No, she wasn't supposed to die. She'd never been on his list. And he hadn't killed her.

There was a note. Clutched in her slackened grip like some twisted sort of lifeline that had run out, sullied by blood from the deep gashes in her arms.

It was all his fault that she was dead. Even with the police all over him, he still managed to hurt people.

Soon the cops would figure out what kind of conniving person he was. He wasn't good. He was a killer. And they were all eating out of the palm of his hands.

They'd figure out soon enough what kind of monster he really was.

 

* * *

 

 

Jay was looking out his back window watching the boy. Despite his goal to be nicer to Patric, out perhaps in spite of, the kid had insisted on practically moving into the back yard. Every night he'd curl up under the big tree on nothing but the moist ground as Jason laid in his warm bed, unable to sleep. He worried about the boy freezing out there, as much as it pained him to admit it.

Right now, in the early hours of morning he watched Patric talking with a girl. She was a pretty little thing of obvious Asian heritage. Long brown hair framed her face falling gracefully past her shoulders.

She handed him a bag which Patric took gratefully. He carefully set the bag down at his feet and pulled the girl into a hug. As Patric rest his head on her shoulder she rubbed his back in a soothing manner.

Jason could see she was saying something to him but it was anyone's guess as to what. Probably whispering sweet little nothings in his ear.

An unpleasant pang shot through Jason's chest as he watched the two continue their each. She pulled away a little bit holding onto Patric's hand. Jason growled. He realized, with much difficulty, that he might be jealous.

He wanted to be in her place.

But he'd never admit that out loud. Had trouble admitting it in his head. Jay crushed that line of thinking and directed his attention to the happy couple. Only to see, they weren't so happy.

Patric... he looked like he was crying, hands balled up near his face. And the girl, she was looking at him like she absolutely didn't know how to handle this mod change. She said something else then left.

Patric practically crumpled to the ground growling in anguish as he pounded the dirt with clenched fists.

He seemed a tad upset. Jay briefly considered going out to comfort the hurting boy. That's his girlfriend's job a seething voice echoed within. Jason hastily walked away from the window trying his best to wipe the scene from his mind.

 

* * *

 

 

Patric couldn't believe it. Miranda was dead. She killed herself. And it was all his fault.

He was glad Mia had visited him. Glad that she had brought him some of his own things. Glad that she told him about Miranda. Apparently she had thought Patric wasn't coming back after Russell told her whatever. Heartbroken over the abandonment of a friend, she had taken a knife, a butter knife, and slit practically her whole arm.

She left a note that centered mostly on her not being able to live without her friend Patric. He was the only person Miranda thought would ever understand her and treat her like a friend. She was so blinded by her friendship with Patric that she never even noticed how much Russell adored,,, her.

"Oh God," Russell how would Patric ever face his friend? To make matters even worse, Russell had been the one to find her... and the note.

This was not how Patric planned to start his day.

He wiped the tears off his face and takes a hand through his hair. All he wanted to do was go to sleep. Maybe he'd sleep straight through until tomorrow and this shitty day could be put behind him.

Yeah, that's what he'd do.

He grabbed the bag Mia had left him and walked over to the large tree in Jay's yard. Opening the bag he got out a blanket and curled up at the base of the tree to sleep.

Tomorrow would be better.

 

* * *

 

 

Jason watched the news with way more interest than it deserved, especially since it was the weather forecast. The meteorologist was saying something about freezing rain and unusually low temperatures for mid-October. For some reason Jay's mind was stuck on that forecast. More specifically still, on who that first would effect. His traitorous conscience was acting up.

His gaze shifted towards the window overlooking the back yard. Patric was out there in these conditions.

Sighing, Jay made his way to the back door. He opened it and swore when a blustery gust of wind yanked it right out of his grip.

Striding across his lawn to the tree, Jay gazed form at the kid. The thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders did nothing to abate the bite from the cold and wind. Jason could see Patric's body raked with shivers and there was a noticeable blue tinge to his lips.

That wasn't good.

It was time to change Patric's living arrangement, whether he liked it or not. No more would he live in Jason's back yard. Just because Jason didn't like the kid, didn't mean he wanted him to freeze to death.

He gently bent down and picked the boy up worried when Patric didn't show any signs of waking up. And the kid was skinny almost dangerously so.

Swearing under his breath Jason vowed to make the kid eat more. But now it was time to warm Patric up.

 

 

 

 


	10. Day Sx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drinking games are a great way to find out things you don't want to know.

**Day Six**

 

Jay rolled his eyes as Patric rooted through the evidence from the crime scenes again.  The kid was getting nervous.  It was day six and he still hadn't found something to prove his innocence.  As soon as the two had entered the office that morning Patric muttered something about missing _something_ and started furiously rooting through the files.

There was a list he was writing of all the similarities between the crime scenes.

-spray paint   
-crappy rhymes   
-knew them all <\- _disturbing_   
-leather gloves   
-throw away phones   
-times of death in phone call.

Patric stopped short at the last one.

The times.

Why were they so important that the killer just _had_ to say them?

And they were so _exact_.

There was no rounding.  They were very deliberate.

Why did the killer say them?

He takes his hands through his hair hoping some deity would zap the answers into his brain.

Jason watched as Patric appeared to be having a mini meltdown while staying at his pathetic list of similarities.  He started at the paper for several minutes looking like his brain was seconds from exploding and oozing out his ears when all of a sudden he shouted, "They're a code!"

Well, that came from absolutely nowhere.  Despite his better judgment to leave the crazy rich boy alone, Jay found himself asking, " _What's_ a code?"

"The times of the murders," Patric clarified.  He sounded so _sure_ so certain.

Jay felt hopeful that this man had proved his own innocence.  "What's the code?" he asked trying not to sound as excited as he felt.

"I don't know yet," Patric admitted reluctantly.

Jason rolled his eyes he felt a tiny bit less hopeful now.

It was hard to crack a code let alone crack it in one day with the pressure of multiple murder convictions hanging over his head if he failed.

* * *

 

 

"Remind me why I'm here again," Patric groaned as they say down at Montoya's kitchen table.

"'Cause I invited you to play immature drinking games so we could all get shitfaced," Montoya answered with a slight slur.

"So we've played beer pong and flip cup.  What are we playing now?" What kind of drinking game could they possibly play sitting around a table?  Patric didn't know of any.

"Never Have I Ever," Montoya shrugged like it was obvious.  The other three groaned.

Patric looked around lost, "How do you play that?"

"Basically what's gonna happen is you're going to say something that you've never done," Montoya explained.

"That's it?"  Didn't sound like much of a game to Patric.  And where did the drinking come in?

Just as Montoya was answering "Yup," the others chorused, "no."

"If you've done what the other person hasn't, you take a drink," Sophie added.

"And if you want to hear the story behind how the person's done it, you take a drink and they have to tell it," Isabelle chimed in.

"Got it," sounded pretty easy to Patric.

"Get ready to do a lot of taking.  Most of us know each other’s' stories." Jason shot a selfish grin in Patric's direction.

_Oh great…_

“Great! I’ll start,” Montoya declared clapping her hands. “Never have I ever,” she paused and glanced around the table before her gaze landed on Isabelle, “lost a limb.”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes at Montoya, “So that’s how we’re playing,” she took a gulp of her beer to show that she had lost her leg.

“What?” Montoya shrugged innocently, “How was I supposed to know if blondie over here,” she jerked her thumb at Patric, “had all his toes or not?”

Jason snorted out a laugh, “Yeah, Izzy. Aren’t you glad we know that now?”

“Shut up, you,” she glared good-naturedly at Jay.

“Just you wait until my turn,” she promised Montoya.

Next up was Sophie, “Never have I ever had anal sex.”

Jason nearly choked on air. Never had he expected to hear those words come out of her mouth. “Really Sophie, sex questions?” He asked even as he and Montoya took a drink. He was surprised to see Patric’s cup remain on the table.

“Aren’t you gonna take a drink?” he asked looking to the blond. Patric had to have anal sex before, right? Especially with a boyfriend like Nico.

Patric’s brow crinkled in confusion. “I thought I was supposed to take a drink if I’ve done it.”

“Yup,” Montoya agreed loudly, “that’s the idea.”

“Right. I’ve never had anal sex,” Patric said plainly.

Jay gave him a skeptical look but let it slide. The kid wasn’t being honest or he was… whatever. It’s not like it mattered.

Except… for some reason it kind of did to Jason.

It was Patric’s turn next.

He licked his lips nervously, “Never have I ever broken into a house.”

To his surprise, and relief, someone drank to that. Sophie took a sip of her beer.

Jason looked at her in shock and his expression was mirrored b everybody else at the table. Apparently none of them had known that about sweet Sophie Porter.

“Wait, I wanna hear about _that, chica_.” Montoya laughed taking a swig out of her glass.

“Fine,” Sophie agreed with no animosity. “It was when I still lived with my parents. They were away on a trip and somehow I managed to lock myself out of the house while I was working on the garden outside. So… I went around to all the windows and found one that wasn’t locked. I pushed it open using the palms of my hands until I could slip my hands through the cracks at the bottom and pull up the window normally. Then I climbed into my house.”

“Man, that was the lamest break in story ever Sophie,” Montoya whined.

“I think it was pretty good thinking,” Patric countered giving Sophie a winning smile that she returned full blast.

Jason saw their little exchange and felt his heart clench. He was jealous, he realized with a frown. He’d never gotten Patric to smile like that. That’s when he realized they were all staring at his frowning face. “Uh… never have I ever gotten a tattoo?”

“Lame,” Izzy and Montoya sang as they both took a drink.

He was surprised, once again, to see Patric didn’t take a drink. Jason had always thought the rich bad boy type were all about bod-mods.

At the questioning look he was getting from Jason Patric offered, “My father would have _killed_ me if I ever even _thought_ about getting a tattoo.”

Montoya was looking at Isabelle with a similarly questioning look. “Wait, you don’t have a tattoo,” she accused, “I’ve seen you naked.”

“You wanna know more, you drink,” Isabelle smiled seductively.

Patric had never seen someone drink anything as fast as Montoya did in that instant.

“I _used_ to have a tattoo,” Platt explained simply.

“How can you ‘ _used_ to have a tattoo’?” Sophie voiced the question on everyone’s mind.

“It was on my foot,” she added.

Everyone understood immediately, “Wait… you don’t have a tattoo on your foot,” everyone except Montoya.

“It was on my _right_ foot.” Her foot that wasn’t there anymore.

“ _Ohh_.”

And then it was Isabelle Platt’s turn. She knew exactly what she was going to say to get back at Montoya for that “lose a limb” thing earlier.

“Never have I ever,” she shot a playful glance in Montoya’s direction, “been fluent on another language.”

“ _Bastardo_ ,” Montoya growled taking a drink. Nobody was surprised by that, they all knew she was fluent in Spanish, but none of them expected Patric to also take a drink.

Sophie looked at him and took a sip of her beer, “I want to know more.”

“Well, my mom’s from Japan. She taught me Japanese from an early age. I actually learned that before English. It’s really all we spoke when Father wasn’t home.”

“You’re a Jap?” Montoya asked incredulously.

“Hai,” Patric answered. “Hāfu, haha no soba ni. Watashi wa mattaku sore o miteinai shitte imasu. Iden-gaku wa, kimyōdesu. Watashi no imōto wa watashitachi no haha no sokkuridesu.”

“Alright! We get it,” Jason growled. With every revelation Patric made he found himself getting more confused and angry. At this rate, everything he thought about the boy was going to be proven wrong. Then he’d have nothing to stifle his attraction. No reason to say no to pursuing the boy romantically.

“Round two,” Montoya began deeply doing her best impersonation of a cheesy gameshow announcer. “Never have I ever had a boyfriend.

Here, to no one’s surprise the other four drank.

Sophie’s second turn was a little more exciting than Montoya’s. “Never have I ever broken the law,” seeing the obvious eye roll from her colleagues she added, “with or without getting caught.”

“Fuck!” Montoya hissed. “Why’re you all ganging up on me?”

“Why have you done all of these things?” Patric countered.

“Ooh, burn,” Isabelle laughed.

Jason was, once again looking at Patric in question. There was no fucking way this kid had never broken the law. Not with all the spray painting he’s done. And Jason voiced as much.

Patric crossed his arms over his chest. “What? You don’t believe that I’ve never broken a law?” He sounded hurt that Jason could think so ill of him. Hell, just a few days ago Jason thought him capable of murdering five people.

“But, the graffiti?” Jason clung to that word desperately.

“It’s called commissioned artwork,” Patric spat.

“Huh?” Jay said dumbly.

“Commissioned, stupid,” Montoya chimed in helpfully. “Means he got paid to paint buildings pretty.”

“I know what it means,” Jay snapped.

“Well, sorry,” Montoya muttered.

“Why don’t you ever tell anyone you paint buildings with the owner’s permission?” Sophie asked gently, curious. There had been a number of times in the past where Patric was brought in for being caught vandalizing buildings. Never once had he said he was _supposed_ to be painting them.

Then again, never once had the building’s owner followed through with pressing charges.

Everyone assumed it was because Patric’s dad was rich and could pay to keep his precious heir out of trouble.

“That wasn’t anyone’s business besides me and my clients,” Patric growled out getting hostile at the continued pestering.

“My turn? Good,” Patric decided it was time to move the game along. “Never have I ever been tased.” And just as he’d hoped, everyone groaned and took a swallow of beer. They all carried tasers and Patric knew in order to carry one you had to experience one.

That would teach them to gang up on him.

It was Jason’s turn.

“Never have I ever had a girlfriend.”

Montoya and Isabelle both looked at each other before taking a drink. They had been dating for a little while now.

Patric actually found it interesting that Jay had never had a girlfriend. He could see that there was some appreciation for the male figure from the way Jason tried to surreptitiously steal glances at him and knew the man mustn’t be entirely straight, he just hadn’t realized that Jason was gay.

And… Jay was once again looking at Patric.

He was thinking back to that girl that had been in his yard with Patric the other day. The girl who brought him that bag. He thought for sure she was his girlfriend.

“Uh… no, gross,” Patric made a face at what Jason apparently said aloud. _Shit_ everyone was looking at him like he was mental. “That was Mia, my _sister_.”

Okay, from Patric’s perspective that was a pretty gross insinuation but how was Jay supposed to know? The two looked absolutely _nothing_ alike. He offered a feeble, “My bad,” in way of apologizing.

So… the guy didn’t have a girlfriend and Jason already knew he didn’t have a boyfriend. That meant Patric was single and available.

Well, as available as a murder suspect could be, he guessed.

Jay hated to admit it but Patric was really his type. To make matters worse (better?) the kid was turning out to not be the jerk that Jason thought him to be. The only thing that still had Jay hesitant was how rich Patric was. The kid came from a family that handed him anything his little heart desired. And Jay couldn’t do that for Patric, nor would he want to.

“So, Gabby and Izzy,” Sophie began, “You’re officially going out then?”

There was a labored sigh from Isabelle as if it physically pained her to respond to that question.

“Yes,” she begrudgingly admitted.

“Don’t say it like that snookums,” Montoya leered making a kissy face. “You know you want me.”

“Like the plague,” Isabelle deadpanned.

“Never have I ever,” Isabelle purred lasciviously, “been beaten for a reason other than _pleasure_.”

Jason and Montoya both took a drink cursing about fucking violent suspects as they did so. That had been Isabelle’s goal. To get them both to drink. She wanted Montoya to get completely sloshed and Jay, Jay needed to loosen up. He’d been glaring at Patric all night for one reason or another and the boy had been an absolute gem so far.

Then, to her surprise, Patric hesitantly raised his can and took a gulp of the amber liquid.

“Patric?” Sophie questioned concern evident in her voice.

“I… uh, I don’t want to talk about it,” he spoke quietly shifting his gaze to look anywhere but at the four pairs of eyes now staring at him intently.

“Well, I wanna hear about it,” Montoya took a large swig of her beer.

Patric seemed to retreat into himself and Jason almost told him he didn’t have to say anything when he answered, “It was my father.”

And he wouldn’t offer anything else on the matter.

“Alright, I got one that I don’t think I’ve ever said before. Never have I ever lived on the streets,” Montoya smirked looking to Isabelle who, she knew, had this brief time in between homes as a child.

Sure enough, she raised her can and took a drink glaring daggers at her girlfriend as she did so. But so did Patric.

Standing up as he downed the rest of his can Patric said, “It was either stay home with an abusive father or live on the streets.” He glared at the wall across the room so intensely Montoya worried her house might burn down. “I’m done playing this game. I’m gonna turn in.”

Then he stomped away.

“Nice going Montoya,” Jason accused dully.

“Hey, how was I supposed to know he lived on the streets?” She defended herself quickly.

“You weren’t,” Sophie spoke quietly.

“Sophie, why do I get the feeling you know something the rest of us don’t,” Jay asked trying to get her to spill her gutz.

“I do,” she shrugged.

“Want to share with the class?”

“Patric plays the obedient rich man’s child in front of the media,” Jay scoffed at the word _obedient_. Maybe _typical_ would have been a better choice. The gay Oliver Queen. “But his father wasn’t very supportive when he found out his son was gay. He’d beat him. And nobody did anything to stop it. So Patric started coming home less and less. He started making friends with people on the street and decided to help out in a soup kitchen every day so his friends would get a meal cooked with love. His father never stopped him from working there because it looked good on him to have a son who was such a _philanthropist_.”

“Fuck,” Jason swore.

“You said it, boss,” Montoya agrees letting out a loud belch.

“Eight point five,” Isabelle judged immediately causing Montoya to whine.

“Why do you know that?” Jason asked.

“You’d be surprised what speculations you can find on the internet,” Sophie chimed with a grin. At the disbelieving faces her grin faltered before she admitted. “He told me.”

“Jesus, Soph,” Jay ran a frustrated hand through his hair, “and you didn’t think this was something we needed to know?”

“No. It doesn’t relate to our case in any way,” Sophie said evenly.

But Jay _had_ needed to know that. He had treated Patric horribly. How would he ever be able to even ask for forgiveness? Jason swore under his breath. “I’ll be outside rethinking my entire _life_.”

 

* * *

 

 

Okay, so when Patric said he was turning in for the night all those hours ago he’d imagined he’d be sleeping. But sleep eluded him. He hadn’t gotten so much as a wink. And there was this infernal _thud, thud, thud_ coming from outside.

He sat in bed listening to the sound of something hitting the side of the house.

_Thud._

Each

_Thud._

Hit

 _Thud_.

Agitating

_Thud._

Him

_Thud._

Further

_Thud._

“That’s it,” he shot out of bed. He was going to see _who_ was throwing _what_ and give them a piece of his sleep deprived mind.

With newfound determination he made his way to the front door. Patric saw right away who the perpetrator was. There was Jason throwing what looked to be a tennis ball against the side of Montoya’s house.

No sooner had the ball been caught than Jay was whipping it at the house again.

Patric watched from his position at the front door. After a half dozen or so throws he decided to make his presence known to the other man.

“You know, for how much you drank, your coordination is _remarkable_ ,” he complimented continuing to watch the man in action.

Jay’s response was a low growl. Maybe if he didn’t engage in conversation the person plaguing his thoughts would leave.

Patric rolled his eyes. Great, they were back to nonverbal communication again, “You know, no matter how many times you throw that, it’s always gonna come back the same way.”

Jay growled and chucked the ball at Patric who yelped in surprise.

Guess he was wrong.

While Patric had been distracted by the attacking tennis ball Jason had closed the distance between them. Patric yelped again when Jay pushed him, sending him crashing into the door roughly. “Why are toy so _infuriating_?” the man all but shouted. Suddenly the tennis ball was looking a lot less hostile in Patric’s eyes.

“So confusing,” Jason whispered staring at Patric like he was some kind of puzzle that was missing vital pieces.

A puzzle he’d never figure out.

“I’m sorry?” Patric was confused. What was Jay doing? What had _he_ done to make Jay do this? He thought they were past all this hostile bullshit.

Jason took a deep ragged breath in before going off on a tirade. “You’re supposed to be this snobbish rich boy who only cares about himself and vandalizes public property, “Here Jay cast an accusatory glare at the boy, “then I find out you’re actually a _good Samaritan_ who spends more time than not sleeping on the streets with the homeless people you help. How am I supposed to put a man who’s so _good_ in jail?”

Sometime during his mini-rant Jason had gotten closer to the boy. So close, in fact, that he had successfully pinned Patric to the door. He looked into the other man’s eyes and found them staring at him in something akin to shock. Those long lashes and big grey eyes adding to the whole innocent look this kid had going for him.

Then Jason turned his focus to those lips. Pouty and slightly opened. God, did he want to hiss them.

Hell, who was going to stop him? Certainly not Patric. He was still gaping at the man like a fish.

Jason closed the distance between them and kissed him.

 

 

***************

 **What Patric** said in Japanese. Definitely used Google translate for that so it’s probably not the most accurate, but it should get the point across well enough.

Yes. Half, on my mother’s side. I know I don’t look it at all. Genetics are weird. My sister is the spitting image of our mother


	11. Day Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pair of sneakers makes everything a bit more interesting.

Patric was sitting on the front steps of Jason’s house. He had been out there for a while now wrapped up in the thick downy blanket from the cop’s guestroom. Ever since the incident the night before Jay had been… _awkward_ to say the least.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on whose side you were looking from, the intimacy didn’t stop with a simple kiss. And apparently Jay couldn’t handle how far it had gone.

It’s not like Patric _asked_ for that blowjob. Sometime during his sulking Jason left mumbling something about being back later to pick Patric up. He had decided to give the boy some time alone before coming back to take him to the police station. When Jay came back Patric would be taken in as the person of interest in the murders of those five people.

All that stood in his way was a quick trial that he was sure to lose.

Patric raked a hand through his hair. He was so _frustrated_. Not only had he not been able to find the killer, he hadn’t even been able to disprove that he hadn’t committed the heinous crimes. He kind of wanted to crawl into a hole and die. It’d be better than going to prison. There was no doubt in his mind that he’d be someone’s bitch, but quick, in a place like that.

Knowing there was no time to better his predicament, Patric did the only thing he could think of: he went back to people watching. Or more precisely, shoe watching. He didn’t want to exert the effort to lift his defeated gaze from its place on the sidewalk. There were a surprising amount of people walking on such a brisk day.

Vans.

Loafers.

Stilettos.

Sketchers.

His custom made converse.

Saddle shoes.

Wait…

 _His_ custom made converse?

His head shot up looking for the shoes. There they were, slightly to the right of Jay’s house. Walking away from him. The person was dressed in non-descript jeans and had a black hoodie, hood pulled up, with a leather jacket over it. He was also wearing gloves.

And Patric’s shoes.

He dimly made note that the guy was also whistling some kind of classical song.

Holy fuck, that was the killer.

It _had_ to be.

No sooner had the thought entered Patric’s mind than he as up charging after the person.

“Wait!” he shouted.

Which caused the guy to turn around to see who had called out to him. When he saw Patric chasing after him he began to run. In hindsight, Patric realized calling out to the person that was trying to frame him for murder probably wasn’t the best idea.

As the chase continued, Patric realized he was coming close to the end of his designated area. By his recollection, it was at the end of the block they were currently running down. The killer crossed to the next street, Patric hot on his tail. Patric hesitated minutely at the end of his approved area.

Should he keep chasing the guy or wait?

If he chased, Jay would be so _pissed_. If he waited, the murderer might get away.

“Fuck it,” he decided before continuing after the man.

******************************

At the station Jason and is teammates were rather subdued. All of them knew Patric wasn’t the killer. But all the evidence pointed to him killing those five victims. They knew, at this point, an innocent person was going to jail because of an extremely _careful_ murderer.

An alarm sounded.

It was for Patric’s bracelet.

He’d made a run for it.

“Fuck,” Jay cursed racing for the door, tracking device in hand. He was surprised to see Patric was not far from the station. “I’ll go after him on foot, you follow in a car,” he said to his teammates before exiting the room.

He dashed out to the sidewalk never once taking his eyes off of the little blip that was Patric on the tracking device. When Jason saw he was gaining on the target he looked up to see Patric sprinting slightly ahead of him.

He ran until he was a little closer to the boy before tackling Patric to the ground. To his surprise Patric scrambled to get away from him, kicking and clawing at anything he could reach. “What the fuck are you doing?” Jay growled.

When Patric realized it was Jason restraining him he rounded on the man. “Me?” Patric boomed causing several pedestrians to look at the escalating scene with interest. Nosey bastards. “What are you doing? He’s getting away!” Patric made an erratic sweeping forward motion with his arms. Jesus, at this rate the killer was as good as gone. And Patric’d been so close to catching him.

“Who?” Jay asked suspiciously, dumbly, in Patric’s opinion.

“Santa Claus,” Patric deadpanned even as his shoulders slumped. The man had definitely gotten away by now. “Who do you think?”

At Jason’s confused look Patric elaborated, “The fucking murderer!”

“How do you know whoever you were chasing was the guy?” the man holding him down asked skeptically, too skeptically, for Patric’s liking.

At least the awkwardness from this morning was gone.

“He’s wearing my shoes!”

All right, now Jason was looking at him like he was an idiot. So Patric painstakingly told Jason about his beautiful custom made converse. Not only had they been custom made from the website, he had also, of course, added more personal content with spray paint and acrylic. He spent so much time making those shoes perfect and then some jackass stole them a couple of weeks ago.

“Didn’t you say there were tracks left at the later crime scenes of size twelve converse?” Patric asked the police officer who was _still_ perched on top of him.

Jason hadn’t ever said that but figured Patric had seen that little tidbit of information in the case files he’d studied. He just nodded his head so Patric would continue with whatever he was trying to say.

“Those were mine. Some jackass stole them. They were on that guy’s feet. He’s the murderer.”

Jason’s eyes grew wider the more Patric talked. The accusation Patric had just made was a pretty big leap, ginormous really, but Jay would take it.

It was enough to have a potential suspect that pointed away from Patric.

Jason suddenly realized he’d been pinning said boy down the whole time and scrambled to his feet. He helped Patric up and gave him a winning smile.

“Would you be willing to describe this guy to one of our sketch artists?”


	12. Portrait of a Killer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patric describes the man he chased and Montoya learns something she didn't know about Jay.

They were seated in an interrogation room. Jay watched with interest as Patric described the man he had been chasing to the sketch artist.

The man was obviously fit. From what Patric said he had been chasing the guy for a while only making small progress with closing the distance between them. He was wearing a black hoodie with the hood up and a brown leather jacket over that. There were leather gloves on the man’s hands and a pair of dark blue jeans on his legs. And Patric’s shoes on his feet, making the criminal’s shoe size a twelve.

Patric said the man was probably an inch or so taller than his own height and he seemed to have a pretty solid build. Probably went around 180 pounds. The sketch artist noted all of these characteristics, but what they were really interested in was the face of this man.

Jay decided to push this little process along by telling Patric what the sketch artist wanted to hear. “She wants to know more about the man’s face,” he smirked kindly at the timid sketch artist who blushed, giving him the best puppy dog eyes she could muster.

 _So_ not interested. Jason had to fight not to roll his eyes at the misguided girl.

“The face?” Patric asked for clarification which also succeeded in taking the girl’s attention off of Jason and back on her job.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I have to warn you, I wasn’t really concentrating too much on his face. I was kind of trying to catch him,” Patric began.

Jason had the sinking suspicion that he might not have even seen the man’s face. After all, Patric was chasing him and the guy in question had been wearing a hood. It wouldn’t be too farfetched to not even catch a glimpse of it.

“Did you see the guy’s face?”

“Yeah,” Patric sounded like he was trying to convince himself that he saw the suspected murderer’s mug.

Jason gave him a look that screamed that he needed to be more convincing with his answer than that,

So Patric thought about it. Thought back on chasing that man across half the town. Right when he started the chase he had called out to the man and the guy had looked back.

The only thing Patric had really registered at the time was the flash of fear in the man’s eyes. He hadn’t expected to get caught, or be chased. Patric remembered wisps of hair fluttering out the side of his hood at times meaning the guy had longer hair. And judging by the shape of the hood concealing the murderer’s features, he had a more oval shaped head. Patric also knew the man was Caucasian.

“Yes,” he answered more confidently this time.

Jason motioned for him to get on with the description.

“Uh, oval face,” he started, then closed his eyes trying to picture the man in his mind as the sketch artist got to work.

“Brownish-blond hair, it was longer, probably a bit past the ears,” Patric made a motion to show some kind of hairstyle. “Maybe a layered cut?”

“The guy was definitely Caucasian too.”

There was a significant pause in Patric’s description where the only thing that could be heard was the sound of pencil on paper as the sketch artist brought the killer to life.

“Did you see anything else that might help?” Jason asked gently coaxing Patric to continue his description.

“Nothing that really stood out, no,” he shifted nervously, “I was too far away to pin down an eye color and… I mean, well, the hood cast a lot of his ace into shadow. I’m lucky I saw _that_ much.”

And Jason had to agree. He thought Patric was lucky enough to get that much of a description while chasing the hooded man.

“This is what I have so far,” the crippling shy sketch artist showed the portrait to the two men.

It, unfortunately, wasn’t something that narrowed their search down too much. A non-descript white male with blond-brown hair that was about six foot and weighed 180 pounds was fairly common in this area.

“Thanks,” Jason said trying not to sound too disappointed. “If we learn anything else we’ll let you know,” he didn’t think they’d be seeing her again.

He walked over to the door motioning for Patric to follow him.

When they were back in Jason’s office Patric glances up at him from under those long eyelashes of his, “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

Jason swallowed thickly, “It’s okay, that was enough for now.”

At those words Patric looked hopeful. That made it sound like maybe they weren’t going to cart his ass off to jail. Jason realized Patric wasn’t the only person waiting for him to continue, Montoya and Izzy had stalled in their bickering and Sophie was watching them from her seat at the table, tea cup in hand, all waiting to hear if Patric was in the clear.

Scrubbing a tired hand down his face Jason began, “There’s still not enough evidence to take your name off of the suspect list,” here he watched everyone’s face fall.

Montoya growled, “Bullshi-“ “But,” Jason continued as if Montoya had never spoken, “there’s also too much pointing against you to say you are the killer. We’re supposed to look more into this hooded guy.”

Jay fixed his gaze on Patric so he would know that what he said next was _really_ important. “But you should keep an _extremely_ low profile.”

The smile on Patric’s face was so wide he thought it might split him in two. Sophie let out a breath she had been holding in and Montoya hooped and hollered while Isabelle just let out a relieved laugh. Jason felt himself smiling too.

And then his heart was hammering in his throat as Patric leapt towards him and hugged him. He excitedly kissed Jason on the corner of his mouth which caused the man to turn a bright red.

Seeming to realize what he’d done, and in front of who, Patric pushed himself away and looked to the floor shuffling his foot awkwardly. When nobody broke the uncomfortable silence, Patric muttered something about going home and quickly fled the room.

The four team members continued to stare at each other, Jason daring each one of them in turn to make something of the scene they had just witnessed.

Isabelle was the first to break the silence with a sing-song of, “Awkward.”

And just like that the floodgates of tension were lifted. “You’re into guys?” Montoya asked like it was the most unbelievable notion in the known universe.

Sophie just smiled that sweet smile that Jason was so fond of and decided, “You look cute together.”

Montoya continued to stare at him incredulously, “You’re into _guys_?”  



	13. Life in Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Routines are boring.

As life settled back into a routine for Patric over the following days he took time to appreciate all the little things that he couldn’t indulge in while with Jason. The first thing he did was contact Russell and say he’d be able to help at the food kitchen again. The man was overjoyed and even offered to let him live on his couch until he got back into the swing of things.

When Patric’s life settled back into a routine he decided he’d conquer the elephant in his proverbial room known as Jason Grant. He wasn’t stupid enough to think that his life was going to go back to the way it was before the killings happened. That wasn’t possible. Patric’d take the good from the horrible crimes and keep in contact with the friends he had made. Sophie, Isabelle and Gabby were really awesome individuals. And Jason, for as much as a pain in the ass as that man was, Patric found him endearing, disturbingly so.

There was also the matter of the killer. He hadn’t solved the case the way he wanted to and that little failure was bugging the shit out of him. He _knew_ that code was the key to the case. All he had to do was figure it out. And Patric intended to do just that.

No way was this sick pyromaniac going to get away with murder.

 

* * *

 

 

After Patric left life came to a grinding halt for Jason. Peaceful. Normal. Mundane. Everything was going smoothly.

And he hated it.

There was no annoying rich kid following his every move. No Patric to banter with. And for some reason Jason didn’t even want to begin to figure out, he missed that. So, about a week after the whole Patric being free to go thing, Jason was more than a little surprised, and really fucking annoyed, to see the blond sitting at his office desk acting like he owned the damn place.

“Who let this shit in?” Jason barked to the room and received three indifferent shrugs from his teammates.

“I missed you too, Jay!” Patric greeted happily.

“Yeah,” Jason said, as close to agreeing with Patric as he could stand to be, at the moment. “Why’re you here?” Not that Jay wasn’t excited about the deviation from his normal day, but he had shit to do. Papers to fill out, organize and file. He didn’t have _time_ for this totally unwanted distraction.

With a great shit-eating grin Patric told the reason for his visit. “I figured out the code.”

“You’re full of shit!” Montoya blurted out excitedly before Jason had the chance to even open his mouth.

“What she said,” Jay decided pointing his thumb back toward his teammate.

“Ooh, good one boss.” “Now,” Jason began cracking his knuckles in anticipation, “What’s this about the code?”

“It’s so simple, I don’t know why it took so long to crack,” Patric exclaimed with a swish of his hands, “but the message doesn’t exactly make sense,” he cautioned before going into his explanation.

“What were the times of the murders?” Patric prompted the group.

Without missing a beat Sophie listed off, “3:09, 1:01, 1:13, 2:19 and 6:09.”

“Yeah, we all know the times, keep going,” Jason groused impatiently. He just wanted to know the fucking code already.

“Now, only look at the last two numbers of each time,” Patric instructed with a knowing smile.

“09, 01, 13, 19, 09,” Sophie supplied to the group.

They sat there and pondered those numbers a little before it clicked. Jason could almost see the exact moment each of them figured out the code. Sophie got a pleased smile on her face. Izzy said “Ooh,” and smacked her head.

“Dayum, we’re stupid,” Montoya remarked.

“Yeah,” Patric agreed. “Each time lines up with that numbered letter in the English alphabet,” Patric finally explained, “making the message ‘I-A-M-S-I’.”

“I am _si_?” Montoya questioned. “Didja just switch to my mother tongue?”

“Nobody wants your mother’s tongue,” Platt quipped.

“Hey, come say that to my face,” Montoya raged jumping out of her seat. “My mother has a beautiful tongue!”

“Said no one ever,” Patric chimed in causing everyone to gawk at him then burst out laughing.

Once they regained their composure Sophie turned to Patric, “So what do you think the code means?”

Jason was curious to know as well. Obviously Montoya’s message wasn’t right. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the table waiting for Patric to enlighten them all.

“I actually think Montoya got the first two words right: ‘I am,’” Patric said, surprising the hell out of Jay.

“Hey, good job Montoya,” Jay praised.

“Said no one ever,” Izzy was quick to chime in causing Montoya to growl and tackle her. She was muttering something about ripping that leg off and bashing Isabelle over the head with it when Patric turned to Sophie and Jay to finish the conversation, deeming the other two lost causes.

“Just tell me what you’re thinking. I know you have an idea,” Jason prodded.

“You’re not going to like it,” Patric began, stalling in the delivery of his apparent bad news.

“But we need to know,” Sophie gently prodded prompting Patric into action. “I think the killer’s message… well there’s really two options,” Patric hesitated, “either S I stands for something or the message isn’t finished yet.”

With those chilling words floating in the air the room went silent, reflecting on all Patric had told them.

“Well,” Jason decided, “I think you should see if you can find out what S I could mean. It’s unlikely at this point that the killer will strike again. It’s not within their normal characteristics to wait this long between killings.

Patric hung around the rest of the day and was so fucking _useful_ that Jay couldn’t even complain. But the day eventually came to a close and he was getting ready to walk out of Jason’s life again.

“Good work today,” Jason called to Patric as he was getting ready to leave their room.

Montoya snickered, apparently well aware of what Jason was trying to do here. Jay bounded toward the door, “Hey, uh, Patric,” he reached out for Patric’s arm to halt him leaving. Patric turned around still mildly shocked to hear Jason addressing him by name and rose an eyebrow at the man in question. “How ‘bout you go to dinner with me sometime?” Jay suggested. He didn’t want to let this snarky man disappear from his life without a fight.

To Jason’s relief Patric grinned and shook his head in response before finally leaving for the day.


	14. The Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patric and Jay's date gets crashed.

Patric met Jason at his house around 6:00. The plan was to walk together to the restaurant and have a quiet meal with enjoyable company. When Jason opened his door to greet his date his breath hitched in his throat. Patric had his hair lightly styled and was wearing a grey knit top that brought out his eyes and a pair of delicious looking pants that he was sure hugged Patric’s ass fantastically. Jay had also spent time making himself look presentable. He had actually _brushed_ his hair, which never happened, and he was using the same trick as Patric, wearing a blue button-down that he was told made his baby blues pop, along with a comfortable well-fitting pair of kakis.

“You look amazing,” Jay complimented.

Patric practically preened under the praise. “You clean up nicely yourself,” Patric threw back at him.

“Ready to go?” Jason asked closing his house door and meeting Patric on the front steps.

“Sure, let’s go!”

They walked down the sidewalk in a companionable silence. After a couple of minutes of walking Patric turned to Jay, “So where are we eating anyway?”

“I’m not sure what it’s called,” Jay shrugged.

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope,” he popped the _p_ like a period to the sentence.

Patric rolled his eyes and allowed Jason to lead on. They arrived at a little Italian restaurant called Dominick’s and were immediately ushered to a table that was near the kitchen area. They’d be able to watch as the food was prepared.

“Welcome,” their waiter greeted walking up to their table, “May I interest you gentlemen in a beverage?”

“Yes, I’d like a water,” Jason said to the man then looked over to Patric. “What would you like?”

Well, at least Jay hadn’t ordered for him. That was a no-no.   “I’ll have a tea with lemon,” Patric ordered looking at the waiter.

After the man left Jason snickered.

“What?” Patric asked unable to keep the small smile off of his face. Jay’s laugh was infectious.

“Tea, how pretentious,” Jay laughed.

“It’s iced tea you jerk,” Patric laughed kicking his feet under the table.

They ordered their food. Patric getting cheese rigatoni and Jason ordering lasagna.

“So, what do people usually talk about on dates?” Jay asked as they waited for their food.

“You’re kidding?” Patric asked not sure if he could believe that Jay was incapable of small talk.

“Yup,” Jason laughed.

“This is nice. You laugh a lot more,” Patric commented.

“Yeah well, my job’s not exactly the most cheerful thing in the world,” was Jay’s dark reply.

Patric opened his mouth to say something about Jason’s chosen profession but was interrupted by a high pitched squeal, “Stop, thief!”

He saw a person running, really riding the struggle bus, as they tried to carry a whole cash register out of the restaurant. Those things were heavy, and for some reason everyone was just watching the thief scurry away. Patric passed a fleeting look to Jason and decided, “I’ll be right back.”

He ran out the door and after the slow-moving thief. In no time at all he had caught up to them and stopped them by grabbing onto their arm. There was a brief moment when he had considered grabbing the hood of their sweatshirt, but he decided they would probably just slip out of the clothing.

“You know, there are definitely easier ways to make money, kid,” he spoke to the struggling thief.

“Don’t call me kid,” the thief growled out trying to shake him off.

“Then what should I call you?” he asked pleasantly.

“Lydia,” the thief growled out and dropped the heavy cash register onto the ground.

“Hi Lydia, I’m Patric,” he greeted the young girl. Really she couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old. “How ‘bout we take this cask box back to the restaurant and I treat you to a nice meal, free of charge,” he smiled kindly after, barely containing a chuckle when he heard her stomach growl. 

She nodded her head agreeing with the officer. They walked back to the restaurant, Patric carrying the cash box. Before they entered Dominick’s Lydia stopped in her tracks and fixed and fixed a calculating gaze on Patric. “I’m not going to get in trouble for this, am I?” she asked cautiously.

“No, let me handle it,” Patric promised.

They headed inside. Patric handed the cash register to an employee. “Found it out there on the ground. It must have gotten too heavy for the thief to carry,” he told the restaurant staff who, for their credit, nodded. He knew that they knew it had been Lydia that had taken the register, but nobody pushed the matter which was awesome because he really hated to bring his father’s name into conversations to help people. But if he had to, he would have done it for Lydia.

He led Lydia back to his and Jason’s table and introduced the two. Another chair was quickly set up for her. She ordered food and the three of them ate together. After Lydia was finished with her food, she bid them good luck on the rest of their date and said goodbye.

“Lydia,” Patric called, “If you’re ever hungry again come to the kitchen on Fifth Street. I volunteer there.”

The girl broke out into a huge grin, nodded in thanks and left.

Soon after, Patric was paying for the bill with a grumbling James swearing that he’s be fronting the bill next time.

There’d be a next time!

On the walk home Patric apologized to Jason for inviting Lydia to eat with them on their date.

To his surprise, Jay laughed, “It’s fine. I get it. You can’t help it. You’re a bleeding heart. That’s what I like about you.”

Patric dimly realized they had stopped walking and Jay was way up in his personal space. He didn’t mind one bit. “I thought you liked my quick wit and sarcasm.” He swayed a step closer to Jay. Their noses were practically touching and they were grinning like fools.

“Now that,” Jay decided, “ _that_ I could do without,” with that last quip their lips pet in a gently kiss.


	15. Family Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason and Patric have eye opening talks.

The day after his and Patric’s date Jason found himself at Sophie’s place enjoying a home cooked meal prepared lovingly by his friend. Meatloaf and potatoes, yum. She had just brought two platefuls and set them down on the table for them to enjoy. They sat at the little oak table and began to eat.

“So, how was your date?” Sophie asked with simmering curiosity. She had been dying to ask that question ever since Jason arrived at her house, but had tried to be tactful and waited a little bit before breathing down his neck and playing Twenty Questions. The time for tact was now over.

“He’s just so _good_ ,” was Jason’s almost whined reply.

“And that’s a bad thing?”

Jason chose his next words carefully, aware that he was going to be silently judged by his friend no matter what he said. “No. Not bad. Different. Refreshing,” he hesitated before deciding to voice his innermost feelings about Patric to Sophie. “We’ve only been on one date but I feel, _Christ_ , I feel like I might, _maybe_ , kind of love him.”

Sophie placed he fork down on the table and folded her hands, resting her head on them and fixed Jason with a look. For some reason, he had the distinct feeling he was being psychoanalyzed. “That’s not so weird,” she commented.

At Jay’s disbelieving look she expanded on her thoughts. “Sure, you’ve only been on one date, but you’ve known of each other way longer. And, hey, you’ve already _lived_ with the guy,” she reasoned.

He words sounded logical and Jay really wanted to believe them but he still argued the point, “But you’re not supposed to fall in love with someone that fast.”

“Who says?”

 

* * *

 

Patric was out with his sister Mia for the first time since they took his bracelet off. He had decided he wanted to hang down at the park and they were both sitting on the old rickety swings. As Patric kicked his legs lazily back and forth the chains on the swings groaned in protest.

“I called your house last night,” Mia began subtly bringing up the fact that he wasn’t home.

“Did you?” Patric asked all innocently, even though he had seen the message from Russell that his sister had, in fact, called the day before.

“You weren’t home,” she stated the obvious. Although to Patric’s trained ears it sounded more like Mia’s way of saying: “Bitch, where were you?”

“No, I wasn’t,” Patric happily agreed. If she wanted to spend their time together pointing out the obvious, who was he to stop her?

“Why not?” she hissed angrily kicking at his swinging feet and causing him to fall off of his precious swing. As Patric pouted on the ground Mia asked, “Didn’t the cop guy tell you to lay low?”

Patric stood up and brushed the dirt off of his pants before hopping back on his swing. “Yes he did,” and his sister was about to go off on him until he added, “but ‘cop guy’ was with me.”

“Huh?” _Ahh,_ that was so like Mia. Always articulate, practically spewing sonnets every time she opened her mouth.

“We went on a date!” Patric informed with glee.

“I thought he hated you,” Mia said flatly.

Great, he finally went on a date with someone new and Mia didn’t believe him. Patric’s smile only grew. “You know, I don’t think he does.”

“Obviously not. Do you like him?”

Patric had to bite back a retort of how dumb that question was. Of course he liked Jay. If he didn’t like the man in some way, he wouldn’t have agreed to go out with him in the first place. “Very much.”

“Ooh, it must be pretty serious,” Mia teased from her swing.

Heart fluttering excitedly, Patric breathed out what he had scarcely hoped, since finding out Jay liked him, “I think it could be.”


	16. Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grumpy Jay gets serious.

“Coffee,” Jason growled at the poor waitress who had the misfortune of getting them food. It was too fuckin’ early for food. In Jason’s opinion, too early for doing anything other than sleeping. When Patric came to his house and woke him up at 4:30, if Jay had a gun he would have shot him. Maybe it was a mistake telling Patric where his spare keys were.

“I’m sorry for my partner’s rude behavior,” Patric apologized to the waitress who looked ready to burst into tears. “He’s not a real person until he’s had about three cups of coffee.”

She giggled at that before asking Patric what he wanted to drink. “I’ll have a big glass of cranberry juice.”

She scampered away to get their drinks with a little too much pep in her step.

They soon settled into a meal of eggs, toast and home fries. Every time Patric took a gulp of his juice he noticed a frown becoming more and more prevalent on Jason’s face.

“I can’t see how you drink that shit,” Jason finally spat glaring at Patric’s juice like it just killed his first born child.

“Ditto,” Patric countered looking pointedly at Jay’s black coffee before making a cheers gesture with his awesome cranberry juice.

Jason rolled his eyes conceding that Patric did have a very valid point.

A little while later when they were finishing up their meal Jason cleared his throat and asked, “Have you had any luck on figuring out what ‘I am si,’ could mean?”

Patric heaved a sigh, “As far as words and abbreviations go I’ve found absolutely nothing that makes sense,” he admitted.

Yet, he had learned more about si that he ever needed to know. Apparntly it was another form for ti, as in the seventh degree of a musical scale. Do, re mi, fa, sol, la, _si_ , do. Si was also the element silicon. And of course the abbreviations. SI could mean an international system of units of measurement or Statutory Instrument. Absolutely none of those options made sense.

“Jay, I really thing this guy might be planning another murder,” Patric told the man. Heck, this guy could be planning a whole slew more for all they knew.

“Patric,” Jason began, more serious that he had ever heard him, “If that’s true, promise me you won’t go anywhere alone.”

“I promise, but, you don’t think-“ Patric trailed off, unable to voice the thought.

“That the next person could be you?” Jay finished for him. “I think it would be stupid of us to rule out that very possibility.”


	17. Weeks Passed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sexual innuendos make office spaces uncomfortable.

A couple of weeks passed by between breakfast with Patric and Jay could tell the man was growing restless with the restrictions put upon his life. Being alone was never something that Patric had particularly enjoyed, but now that he wasn't being allowed to go anywhere without an escort, even though he wasn't under house arrest, he desperately wanted even a few minutes to himself. He had been staying at Jason's house more often than not and had been humoring the man, for the most part, on his _silly_ insistence that he be accompanied at all times when he left the house. Most of the time, Jason accompanied him, but every so often Mia or Russell went out with Patric. And then Jay worried. It wasn't that he didn't trust others. Really, it wasn't, but he worried that they wouldn't truly be able to protect Patric if the killer did rear his ugly head.

Today, Jay was off to work and Patric was staying in to binge watch _Arrow_ on Netflix. Jason hugged Patric tightly before saying goodbye and heading to work for the day.

* * *

Jay was staring at the device again, Montoya noted as the man sat at his desk ignoring the mountain of paperwork he could be sorting.

"You're still bugging the kid?" she asked.

Yes, Jason had taken to bugging Patric with a small tracking device. It was to put his mind at ease while he wasn't able to be with him. If something happened unexpectedly, he'd know where to find Patric.

"Of course he's still bugging the kid," Izzy answered Montoya's question. "Wouldn't want lover boy to get taken by the big bad wolf."

"Is _that_ what he calls it? I don't think Patric would mind it if it was _Jay's_ 'big bad wolf,'" Montoya added.

Jay had a funny impression that they were talking about his penis. He shared a look with Sophie they both rolled their eyes. Taking a sip of his coffee, Jason continued to listen to, what he assumed was, their foreplay.

" _I_ wouldn't mind if it was _Jay's_ big bad wolf," Isabelle said casting a lewd glance toward Jason's crotch, causing said man to nearly spit out his coffee.

"I always thought you were more of a _jaguar_ kind of girl," Montoya mused.

Izzy gave Montoya a smoldering look full of promise, "I have been known to go after the _right_ kind of cat," she purred.

Montoya cleared her throat, 'Yeah…"

Clapping his hands together, Jason brought the attention back to him, "So now that that _wonderful_ mental image has derailed and fallen off a cliff burning, to answer your question: I'm just worried."

"About not getting any more sex?" Montoya guessed, ever the crass horn-dog. Jason wondered how she'd react if she knew that him and Patric hadn't really had sex yet. Sure there had been that blowjob, and moments of fooling around but…

"He's worried about something happening to the man he loves," Sophie corrected Montoya when it seemed like Jay wasn't going to correct her himself, too lost in thought to actually reply.

"Loves?" Montoya and Platt shouted at the same time.

Jay gulped, "Loves," he agreed.

* * *

This was going to be the best one yet. He had all the preparations made. It had taken him weeks, but he was finally ready. Just thinking about what he was about to do made his member quiver with anticipation. It was going to be so _good_. And he would finally get what he deserved. He'd lose everything. That's exactly what he deserved. To lose just as much as he did.


	18. Groceries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jay finally receives a text he's been waiting for.

Jay pulled Patric into a bone-crushing hug, as had become their routine every morning. But this morning was different. This morning Jay and Patric were both leaving the house. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Jason asked for the hundredth time, vaguely wondering when he had become such a mother hen.

Patric rolled his eyes at the man’s worry, “I’m just going to the store. I’ll be fine. I’ll be back in an hour, tops. Besides, Mia’s going with me,” Patric reminded him. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Jay’s eyes darkened almost imperceptibly at Patric’s flippant dismissal. The worst that could happen with a serial killer on the loose? He didn’t want to think about that. “Just,” Jay sighed, “text me when you get home.” With that last remark, Patric went to his sister’s waiting car and Jason began his walk to work.

* * *

 

Jay didn’t ever think he’d been such a wreck. He was pacing back and forth, raking hands through is hair, all the while glaring daggers at his phone. An hour and ten minutes had already gone by and Patric hadn’t texted him to let him know he was home. That was _ten minutes_ past when he promised he’d be home.

“I’m sure everything’s fine. It’s just taking a little longer than he thought at the store,” Sophie spoke lightly, trying to convince everyone of her words. But, Patric had never been late texting Jay before.

An hour and ten minutes turned into an hour and a half.

Soon two hours came and went.

And finally, after two and a half hours Jason’s phone buzzed, signaling that he’s received a text. He jumped at the sudden vibrations and practically threw the blasted piece of technology across the room in his haste to open the damn thing.

_Patric: Hey, this is Mia. I can’t find Patric anywhere. I found his phone on the ground outside the store. I think someone’s taken him._


	19. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patric wakes up.

Jay had never been so fucking glad for a tracking device in all his life. He had a beacon leading right to where Patric was. He'd follow it and find Patric, and hopefully the serial killer. All he had to do was go give his team some instructions on how to proceed and he'd be off to rescue Patric.

* * *

Patric woke up with a horrible headache. He immediately tried to reach his hands up and massage his temples only to find them bound behind his back. In fact, he was trussed up like a damn thanksgiving turkey. Thrown in the corner of some dilapidated looking room like yesterday's trash. _Or a hostage,_ he thought grimly as he remembered how he had gotten into this hairy situation. All he wanted was to have a few minutes by himself. So, while Mia was waiting at the deli, he snuck away from her deciding he's wait outside for her to finish shopping instead of following her around the store like some kind of helpless puppy. He had been standing so close to the front of the store, he couldn't believe something had happened.

And what exactly _had_ happened?

It was a little fuzzy but… someone, he thought, someone might have drugged him.

Maybe Chloroform?

Patric didn't really know drugs too well. Was that the one that was supposed to smell sweet?

He wasn't sure.

He _did_ remember a cloth being pressed to his mouth and nose, then nothing.

There were footsteps.

He heard them outside the room.

Slowly getting louder.

 _Fuck_.

Whoever it was, they were getting close.

Finally the footsteps stopped.

It seemed like an eternity until the barely-attached door to his cell was open.

"Russell?"

How did Russell find him?

This was awesome! He was saved.

"That's right," Russell greeted, sounding strange compared to how he normally addressed Patric. It was hard to explain. Kind of sounded hardened and choked with emotion all at the same time. Like somebody had just told him that Santa Claus the Easter Bunny and Stephen Hawking were not real, all at the same time.

"Pat, it's been a while," Russell greeted in that same detached voice. He crossed the room and kneeled down in front of Patric, patting his cheek roughly with his dirty hands, "Here's what's gonna happen, my _friend_ : you're going to do exactly what I say or everyone you care about is going to die."


	20. Victim Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another victim...

It's probably bad that Patric's initial reaction was to laugh in Russell's face. But, it was Russell. There was no way he was serious. This had to be some sick joke.

Then Patric took a good look at his friend. Hoodie, brown leather jacket and a pair of leather gloves that he was currently slipping over his hands. Realization was pooling in his guts, lower and lower it crept, along with a certain amount of growing dread. Patric's eyes flickered down to Russell's feet and there they were, his custom made converse.

"You're the murderer," he accused loudly before thinking better about blurting that out.

"Bingo!" Russel replied with a growl and pulled a can of spray paint out of his hoodie pouch. Holding it like the weapon Patric knew it to be in his hands.

Russell hauled Patric off of the floor, yanking him roughly by the arm. He spoke with barely contained glee, "We're going on a little road trip."

* * *

 

Jay had been following the source of the beacon in a station issued van with the rest of his teammates. The tracking system was displayed for all to see. It had been stationary, in a location they decided was near the old abandoned factories down by the river (because why wouldn't the abductor go put his hostage in the most stereotypical spot ever) until about two minutes ago.

Then the device started moving.

Patric's little beacon actually appeared to be coming back their way. The device turned a sharp left then-

"Fuck!" Jason shouted. The beacon wasn't… beaconing anymore. Somebody had found Jay's little bug and destroyed it.

Having seen why Jason was cursing, Sophie agreed, "'Fuck' is right."

 _Now_ how would they be able to find Patric in time?

* * *

 

He was whistling pieces of _On the Transmigration of Souls._

Fitting, he decided, because soon another soul would be leaving this earth. Taking a deep breath he palmed his crotch letting out a groan of delight. The fire would be so close this time. He'd feel it tickling his flesh like the caresses of some long lost lover.

Like Miranda.

He rolled his eyes at the man on the ground. To think, she liked _this_ enough to die. He was nothing. He'd get what was coming to him soon enough. Now, actually.

He lit the match and pointed it toward a foot.

Then he pressed the nozzle of the paint can down.

As the flames licked flesh, he came.

* * *

 

 _God, tonight is a dull shift,_ Stacy thought as she cracked her gum. She supposed she should actually be happy about that. It meant everyone was staying out of trouble.

The phone rang.

Maybe she shouldn't have thought anything. Clearly she jinxed it.

Answering the phone line she greeted in a chipper voice, "911, please state your location and a brief description of the emergency."

There was heavy breathing. Probably some damned kid playing a lame game of truth or dare. Those happened all the time. There was a cough. Were they _sobbing_?

"911, please state your location and a brief description of the emergency," she tried again.

There was a hiccupped inhale, short and choppy.

"The time is 3:24 PM," the person began in a soft voice. They seemed to choke on _something_ before continuing. "You'll find the body in the place where Patric Riot's presence did last grace," simple but effective.

Oh, this was big. Stacy's night just got interesting. "Sir, where are you? Are there any injuries? I need you to stay on the line-

There was a click of a dial tone and the caller was gone.

"Shit!"

She forwarded the call information to the precinct and the squad van already on the case.

* * *

 

"Jay," Sophie spoke urgently, "You're gonna need to get us to the store," her eyes were glued to her tablet screen.

"Uh, _no_ , I _need_ to find Patric," Jason countered. There was no way in Hell he was going to lose Patric.

None.

Montoya scooched forward in her seat and looked at Sophie's tablet screen over her shoulder, scanning the information that had just been sent out to everyone at the station.

Montoya echoed Sophie's earlier words, "You need to get us to the store. There's been another attack."


	21. The Store

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to where this whole ordeal began.

There in the back. People were saying there was thick smoke coming from the back of the building. Jay and his team could see it, so that’s where they headed. Guns drawn and ready, they made their way to the backside of the store where Patric had gone missing only a few short hours ago.

The first thing Jason saw were two bodies on the ground. One he recognized instantly, with a god-awful lurch to his stomach, as Patric. The other was someone he didn’t thing he had ever seen before. Although, even if he _had_ seen the man before, Jay doubted the man looked the same. The guy was so badly burnt.

Jason cautiously made his way over to Patric. He was staring. Awake and sitting on the ground, Patric never took his eyes off of the charred person. Jason noted, that besides some dirt from the fire’s smoke, there seemed to be nothing physically wrong with Patric. Now, mentally, he knew that was a can of worms they’d have to deal with over time.

He crouched down next to the unmoving blond.

“I know what the code means now,” Patric said, never moving his gaze from the charred person. His voice was hoarse from yelling and oddly hollow. His cheeks red and tear-stained. And Jason just wanted Patric to _look_ at him. Not waiting for Jason to acknowledge what he had just heard, Patric continued, “I am six.”

 _I am six_. Jay mulled it over in his head. Until this incident there had been five victims meaning victim six… was the murderer. That sick fuck, Jason’s face contorted into a look of pure disgust, he’d always planned to be the sixth person to die.

But, Jay glanced over to the charred lump of flesh where Sophie was crouched checking for signs of life. Even from this distance Jay was almost sure the guy wasn’t dead. Seeing his question glance Sophie confirmed, “He’s still breathing.”

Soon enough an ambulance and Medevac were there. The EMT staff quickly loaded Patric into the ambulance and Charred-lump into the helicopter for faster transport. Jason decided he’d go to the hospital with Patric. The nice EMTs even let him ride in the back of the cab with Patric once he used some _gentle_ threats, err, yeah, they were definitely threats, to make it happen. Before the doors were fully closed on the ambulance Patric weakly called to the helicopter, “Please don’t let him die.”

The words were lost in the slicing of the helicopter’s blades, but Jason had heard them. He couldn’t understand for the life of him why Patric would care about this killer.


	22. Good PatRiot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patric and Russell have a heart to heart.

_When they arrived at the store Russell immediately made his way to the back of the building dragging a semiconscious Patric with him. The idiot just wouldn't do what Russell had told him and he couldn't take the chance of something going wrong before his plan was complete._

_"_ _Why're we here?" Patric slurred as Russell threw him roughly to the ground behind the store._

_"_ _We're here because you're gonna murder me," he assured his friend with glee._

_From there it was pretty fast paced._

_Russell wrestled with Patric until he got the boy to push down the nozzle of the spray can while pointing at the flame that he had lit. Russell aimed the bottle at his foot and the flames engulfed him at once._

_He was in ecstasy._

_"_ _Oh my God," Patric cried, burying his hands in his hair._

_Russell chuckled as the flames licked their way up his pants nearing his torso. "You're not done yet,_ friend _. You're calling in your crime." He pulled a phone out of his jacket pocket and threw it at Patric just before the flames reached that spot._

_Patric fumbled to open the ancient flip phone not really sure if he should be listening to Russell, but not knowing what else to do. Once he managed to get the phone open, a little slip of paper fell out telling him exactly what he was supposed to say._

_He was supposed to call in the murder. Call the cops and report it. Make it seem like he had done it._

_The flames were beginning to reach Russell's head. Patric could smell some of his friend's hair catching on fire. Maybe if he called in the crime they could save Russell. Patric wept as he made the call as Russell burned and laughed before his eyes._

_Never in his life had he seen something so_ sick _, so horrible._

 _Why was he_ laughing _?_

_Make it stop._

_Make it all stop._

_Eventually the burning engulfed Russell completely. Even then, the man continued to laugh until the flames finally began to dwindle. Then the man fell to the ground breathing but not doing much else. It was an almost catatonic state._

_Patric thought he heard the ghost of a sigh say Miranda but he couldn't be too sure. He could do nothing more than stare at the deranged man he had called a friend laying on the ground as the sounds of sirens were heard growing closer in the distance._

* * *

 

 

He opened his eyes.

Wait, that wasn't right.

He hurt.

He thought the first person he'd see when crossing over would be Miranda, but _oh no_ , he'd gone the other way. Patric and a very mean looking icy eyed man that he was sure was Satan himself, were both here with him.

"What the fuck?" he mouthed, not quite able to get the words out. He was starting to believe he was still alive.

That wasn't _fair_! He was supposed to die back there. Patric was supposed to kill him. To know that _he_ was the reason for yet another person's death. It would have been perfect.

"Hey, Russell" Patric greeted quietly looking at the man with a small hesitant smile and strangely glossy eyes.

Was Patric seriously _crying_ for him? "Why am I still here?" he decided to ask flatly, refusing to fix his gaze on anything other than the solution being pumped into his arms through an IV."

"They saved you," Patric whispered also looking down at the IV in Russell's arm.

Why was this kid freaking standing at the base of his bed like a worried parent? "I didn't want to be saved," Russell bit out stubbornly.

"I wanted you to be saved," Patric admitted.

 _Playing God_ , Russell thought. "Why? After everything I did to you… everything I did to those you care about… _why_ would you want to save me?"

The angry man next to Patric crossed his arms over his chest and snorted. At least someone in the room seemed to grasp what Russell was trying to say.

Patric's response to the question confused Russell greatly and he knew he would ponder the meaning for years to come. The boy fixed both eyes on Russell and began talking only after Russell finally looked at him. "Because you're a good person, Russell."

The words made him feel hollow. Him a good person? Maybe, once upon a time. But no, he hadn't been a good person for a very, very long time. He'd always been a little twisted and he knew it. Knew it wasn't normal to _like_ the things he liked, to revel in the pain of others, but he did. He tried to stop once, but then, he just didn't. It was too awesome a feeling to give up. Still, with Patric's proclamation Russell found himself chuckling. A good person? "Not like you, Pat Riot, not like you."


	23. Epilogue

They were sitting on the couch at Jason’s house. Jason had an arm draped over Patric’s shoulder in a way that the blond supposed was to comfort him. “You know he’s going to jail,” Jay spoke up bringing up one of their most talked about subjects as of late.

“As he should,” Patric answered. Russell had to answer for his crimes. “He _did_ kill five people, after all.” But more than jail, Russell needed someone to talk to. Obviously Patric hadn’t been enough. He had no clue that Russell was capable of anything like the horrors he committed. “Hopefully there, they’ll be able to help him,” Patric sighed. “If someone just paid more attention, knew what was going through his head… There were _signs_ , maybe none of this would have happened if I-

Jay cut him off, “There’s no way you could have known.”

Patric nodded his head but Jay could tell he didn’t believe those words.

Not yet.

The ordeal was too fresh.

One day Patric’s guilt would go away. Or maybe it wouldn’t. Only time would tell.

Jason fully intended to stick around the man to find out what the future would entail. He pulled Patric closer and reached for the remote. Flicking on a movie channel, more for background noise than anything else, Jay mentioned with a small quirk of his lips, “You know, he’s right though.”

Partric gave Jay a questioning look. What could Russell have possibly said that Jay found agreeable?

“You truly are good, Pat Riot.”


End file.
